


Lemon Boy

by tieressian



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Artist Reader, Attempt at Humor, Bonding, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Dark Past, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Drawing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, Music, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Pining, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, Road Trips, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snark, Songfic, Stan Lee Cameo, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, kinda not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 68,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22472590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieressian/pseuds/tieressian
Summary: “You’d learnt about him in history class, hell, you’d written a goddamn essay about him. You’d spent hours in high school staring at pictures of him in textbooks, doodling glasses and moustaches over his picture. Maybe this was some weird form of karma.‘Bucky Barnes?’”* * * *Turns out high school history class does come in handy, something you find out in the worst of circumstances. (Eg. being strangled to death by one James Buchanan Barnes).Now a member of Bucky’s ‘cross country journey of self discovery,’ you find yourself slowly growing attached to the ex-assassin. The two of you discovering more than just lost memories.After all, anything can happen on a road trip.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 217
Kudos: 523





	1. I Am An Artist, Please God Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, I have so many other works that I should be working on, but I just couldn't help myself. 
> 
> The title of this story came from Cavetown's song "Lemon Boy," as I was inspired to write this because of it (don't ask why, i don't know either.) The chapter title came from Bo Burnham's song "Art is Dead," and I recommend that you give both a listen. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2CADriBUl2VZMIox4CZ32F?si=smOPwCX8SU6X2CYuImNlwA)

As famous comedian Bo Burnham once said (or rather, sang), art is dead. Your hopes and dreams were shattered, crushed beneath the polished boot of the art industry. Squandered by those who valued money over meaning; monetization over integrity, profitability over inspiration. 

You were bitter, you were upset, you were...unbelievably depressed. And above all, you were exhausted. Months and even _years_ of work had led up to this art show, pieces that you had worked so hard on hung up for all to see.

Well, if by ‘all’ you meant the three people who’d actually shown up.

It stung, like an iron brand shoved deep into your chest. You’d moved to San Francisco to make a name for yourself, to finally be noticed by the giants of the art world. And instead of the fame and recognition you’d dreamed of, all you got was crippling debt and loneliness.

So, with your self-confidence significantly lowered, you closed the show early and went home. Trudging into your crappy apartment and collapsing onto the couch, wallowing in your own self pity until you fell asleep. 

And you would’ve stayed asleep, if it weren’t for the gunshot. 

_BANG._ A loud crack sounded through the air, a single shot that ebbed into heavy silence. You shot up and rolled off of the couch, stumbling over to the door and peering through the peephole. The sound had come from the apartment across from yours, Mimi’s apartment.

Mimi was...not exactly a friend, but you two were definitely close. She’d tell you about her career in journalism, and you’d complain to her about the prices of oil paints and canvases. It worked, somewhat, and you two got along like bread on butter. 

And now, she was in trouble. The two of you lived in a notoriously shitty district, rife with petty crime and corruption. The police hardly ever arrived in time when called, if at all. And in situations like these, you two were left to fend for yourselves.

So—in arguably one of the dumbest decisions of your life—you grabbed your Hello Kitty baseball bat and crept out into the hallway, unlocking Mimi’s apartment door with the backup key and slipping inside. 

Cautiously, you snuck through her apartment, clutching the baseball bat to your chest as you snooped around. Everything appeared untouched, yet something felt...off. You shivered, gripping the bat tighter as you looked around, warning bells blaring in your head as you grew more and more unsettled. 

_Maybe everything’s fine,_ you tried to convince yourself, _maybe this was all just a big misunderstanding_. But you knew, deep in your gut, that that wasn’t the case.

This was more than just a break in.

“Hello?” You called out, internally kicking yourself as you realized how stupid that was. You hefted the bat warningly, ready to swing. “I’m armed! I have a...uh...gun!” No answer, just the soft creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of electricity.

You turned the corner cautiously, baseball bat held at the ready. “Hands in the air—oh shit.” Your eyes widened, confidence fading as you saw what was at the end of the hallway.

It was the intruder.

He was dressed head to toe in black, blending in with the shadows as if he were one himself. Long, dark brown hair framed his masked face, an entire armory’s worth of weapons strapped to his side. As if that wasn’t terrifying enough, his left arm was made entirely out of metal. A faded red star painted on his shoulder like some sort of twisted tattoo.

He tilted his head to the side, regarding you with a cold, calculating gaze that sent shivers down your spine. You had no time to run, and could only watch as he whipped out a gun and pointed it at you.

“Oh _shit_ ,” you swore, throwing yourself to the ground just as he pulled the trigger, the bullet grazing your temple as it flew by. 

You hissed in pain, scrambling to your feet as the man began to storm towards you. “Motherfucking fucking _fuck!”_ you shrieked, swinging the bat haphazardly as he steadily advanced. You somehow managed to clip his jaw in your panic, knocking his mask loose and sending it flying across the room. “Aha!”

Before you could even blink, the man grabbed the barrel of your bat and squeezed, the metal literally _shattering_ under his fingers. Shards of Hello Kitty’s face fell to the floor in a pathetic heap, her glittering black eyes staring up at you sadly. 

In retrospect, maybe you should’ve brought a different weapon.

“Son of a—” he wrapped his metal hand around your throat, crushing your windpipe beneath his fingers. You scrabbled frantically for purchase, scratching uselessly at his metal arm as you kicked and flailed. He didn’t even flinch, simply backing you up against the wall and tightening his grip, watching coldly as you desperately gasped for breath.

You gazed helplessly at your soon to be killer. Staring into his blank, steely blue eyes as your vision began to blur and darken, panic mounting by the second. You were going to die. You were going to die. _You were—_

Wait. Those eyes were strangely...familiar, almost like you’d seen them once before. That jawline, that wide brow, that scruffy beard, you knew them from somewhere. But where had you—

Hold on a minute, it was coming back to you now... 

Oh… _oh shit._

_HOLY SHIT THAT WAS—_

“Bucky Barnes?” you wheezed disbelievingly, eyes bugging out of your head as you made the connection. You’d learnt about him in history class, hell, you’d written a goddamn _essay_ about him. You’d spent hours in high school staring at pictures of him in textbooks, doodling glasses and moustaches over his picture. Maybe this was some weird form of karma.

He was supposed to be _dead_.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He snarled, grip tightening to the point that you could hear your bones creak in protest. You barely stifled the urge to laugh, maybe the oxygen deprivation was finally getting to you.

“Your name...is James...Buchanan Barnes,” you gargled, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You gazed at him pleadingly, hoping beyond hope that something would spark in him.

Nothing. No reaction. It was as if he didn’t even know who he was.

“Son of...Winnifred and...George Barnes,” you forced the words out painfully, voice weak and hoarse. His jaw ticked, lips pressing together almost imperceptibly as he further tightened his grip.

“Best friend of...Steve...Rogers...” your sentence petered off into silence. Eyes rolling back into your head as you went completely limp, finally slipping into unconsciousness.

The man’s—Bucky’s?—breathing stuttered, his grip around your neck slackening until you slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. You gulped down lungfuls of air, ignoring the painful burn of your throat as you coughed and hacked, tears streaming from your eyes.

“What...the fuck,” you groaned, blinking up at him as you struggled to remain conscious. 

He didn’t respond, staring down at you with wide eyes, frozen completely still. As if shaking out of a stupor, he grabbed his mask and goggles and put them on, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder before rushing off to another room. 

“Come back here, you metal armed bitch!” you shouted weakly, “explain to me what the fuck is going on!” You slowly pulled yourself to your feet, leaning heavily against the wall as you followed after him into Mimi’s room. 

He was long gone, but Mimi—or what remained of her—was still there. 

“Oh God, what the fuck did you _do_?!” you gagged, reeling backwards in shock and disgust.

Her head was blown completely apart, blood and brain matter splattered across the wall like a demented Jackson Pollock painting. She was sprawled gracelessly across the floor, limbs twisted in painful, unnatural angles. Skull split open and dripping like a smashed watermelon, her eye (just the one) staring at something in the distance, mouth parted and oozing dark red blood.

You retched loudly, the horrific scene forever burned into your memory. “No, no, no. Holy fuck!”

You should probably call the police now.

* * * *

You walked briskly down the street, repeatedly glancing over your shoulder to make sure you weren’t being followed. You subtly adjusted the scarf around your neck, ensuring all of the bruising was covered by the thick fabric.

It had been a long week, the worst of your entire life. Filled with stress, paranoia, and a generous sprinkling of nightmares for flavor. Everything was falling apart, and you were stubbornly clinging to the threads of your once normal life.

Your apartment building was a constant whirlwind of activity, a never ending train of movement. Policemen, clean up crews, and reporters all hounded you for answers that you couldn’t-- _wouldn’t-_ -give. 

There was something about them that you just didn’t like. Maybe it was their shifty eyes and predatory smiles. The way they whispered to one another as if they were planning something. It put you on edge.

You didn’t trust them, not one bit.

So, you lied, alot. And it was surprisingly easy to do so.

_“I don’t know, officer, I heard a gunshot so I called you right away!_

_“Sorry that my voice is scratchy, I had a bad cold.”_

_“Sir, I think we both know why there’s foundation on my neck. I don’t need to discuss my personal life with you.”_

And with that, you kept what had happened to yourself. Holding your discovery close to your chest. Speaking of which...

_BUCKY BARNES WAS ALIVE!?_

You still hadn’t been able to process it, the fact that a man who had died in the forties had come back to haunt you. It was insane, absolutely insane. Was everyone just going to come back to life? Was Captain America going to rise from the dead too? (Though let’s be honest, based on how things were going, the possibility was pretty damn high). 

How was he even alive? It’d been _seventy years,_ and yet here he was. Alive and kicking. 

And murdering, apparently.

_(You could still feel his fingers around your throat, slowly choking the life out of you as you stared into his cold, dead eyes. Wondering if you’d ever see the light of day again and--Okay that was enough of that.)_

So, like the responsible and competent adult that you are, you shoved all that trauma deep down inside and ignored it. Your (nonexistent) therapist would be so proud. 

You didn’t have time to unpack all of... _that._ You had art to make, a lot of art to make. Preferably enough to distract you from your spiralling thoughts.

You ducked into your building and quickly ran up the stairs, rushing into your apartment and locking the door before anyone could see you. Thank God, you were finally sa--

“For fuck’s sake,” you groaned, barely suppressing the urge to scream. “You could have at least taken your boots off.”

It was _him,_ back again to...what? Taunt you? Torture you? Finish the job? 

He was sitting calmly at your kitchen table, methodically polishing his handgun as he stared at you from across the room. He was once more dressed completely in black--face no longer hidden behind a mask--and in the light of day he was so frustratingly _hot._ God just had to bless your soon-to-be murderer with a jawline like _that_.

“They sent me to kill you,” he said plainly, not bothering to mince words. His tone was cool, detached, as if he was just asking about the weather.

“Lovely,” you muttered, staring at him expectantly. You’d accepted your death a week ago, had made your peace with it the second he had wrapped his fingers around your throat. You were done, ready to embrace the sweet release of death and...

...Why wasn’t he doing anything?

“But I don’t want to,” he slid the gun into the holster and pulled out a wicked looking knife, twirling it in his hand like a baton.

“You don’t...want to,” you reiterated, staring at him confusedly. “Because…?”

“You know me,” he said matter of factly, pointing the knife at you to further illustrate his point, “that makes you useful.”

Oh joy.

He tilted the knife so that it caught the light, “come, sit.”

Oh _joy._

Cautiously, you approached the table, slowly sliding into the chair across from him and placing your hands where he could see them. “Good,” he nodded approvingly, swiping the blade with the pad of his thumb to clean it. “What was the name you called me?”

This was crazy. He was crazy. “Bucky?” And you were crazy for obliging him.

“Tell me more about him.”

Okay, you could do this. You wrote an essay about this guy, got a solid B+ on the thing, too. You probably knew more about him than he did; which was strange, but you were just going to roll with it. 

“You were born March 10, 1917,” you began, glancing at him nervously, “won the YMCA welterweight championship three times,” you swallowed dryly, taking a deep breath before continuing, “enlisted in the US army at age--”

“Drafted,” he interrupted. You looked up at him, but he was staring at the knife in his hand. He wasn’t even aware that he had spoken.

“Drafted,” you corrected. “You were deployed with the 107th Infantry Regiment, and your unit was captured and brought in as prisoners to a weapons facility.” Oh God, you were blanking. This was like mid year exams all over again, but this time your life was on the line. “But you were eventually freed by Captain America--”

“Steve,” he murmured, far away look on his face.

“By Steve,” you backtracked, “and recruited as one of the Howling Commandos.” You took another breath and continued, “You--”

“Enough,” he interrupted, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Where did he live.”

“What?”

“Bucky,” he repeated, “where did he live?”

“Brooklyn?” you answered confusedly, “what do you--”

He stood from his seat and grabbed you by the arm, dragging you towards the door, “we’re going.”

“What?!” you shouted, trying to wrench yourself from his grip and failing miserably. “Where?” 

“Brooklyn,” he answered simply, as if it were obvious.

“You’re not taking me anywhere!” you protested, regretting your words almost immediately.

He turned to you with a scowl, eyes going cold and hard. You froze, flashing back to that fateful night one week before, breath quickening as you began to panic. “We are leaving, now,” he growled.

“Kill me, then,” you seethed.

He glared at you, “No, you need to tell me about him.”

“Why the fuck are you referring to yourself in the third person?” you said hysterically. “I’m not going anywhere with you, you fucking psychopath.”

“You have no choice,” he said grimly, and you believed him. The haunted, chilling look in his eyes was enough to convince you that you were doomed. He had seen things, he had done things, and he wasn’t afraid to do them to you.

He grabbed one of your larger coats and tugged it on, pulling up the hood and tucking his left hand into the pocket. “Can’t you just take a plane or something?” you said meekly, letting yourself be dragged along as he snuck into the parking lot.

“They’ll notice,” he answered dismissively, pulling out your keys and unlocking your sedan.

“How did you--you know what, nevermind,” you sighed in defeat. He pushed you into the driver’s seat and slid into the opposite side, his fingers closing around his holstered gun in warning.

“Drive,” he ordered impatiently, relaxing a little as the engine roared--more like whined--to life and you drove out into the street. 

You prayed that someone would notice your predicament and save you. That someone would call the police, yell for help, stop the car. Do anything at all

But no one did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	2. Lemon Zest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support! I'm really enjoying writing this, as the reader is such a fun character to explore! The relationship between Bucky and Reader at the moment is fun to write, too. It's so volatile, and since the Reader has no idea what's going on, they're prone to lash out and say things they'll definitely regret later... >:) 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

San Francisco traffic was bad enough without Bucky breathing down your neck. Every sharp turn made him tense up, every red light made him grit his teeth, every loud noise made him jump. You couldn’t even turn on the radio, the atmosphere was so tense.

It was absolutely terrifying, the fact that at any moment he could just...snap. Your short lived (borderline suicidal) confidence had long since fizzled out, replaced instead with an overwhelming sense of crippling terror. Everything was hitting you all at once, washing over you in a tidal wave of pure panic. 

Jesus Christ, you’d just been  _ kidnapped.  _ Abducted by a long dead, ninety year old World War II vet who had just murdered your closest friend. You were only alive because he needed you, needed you to fill in the gaps of his memory.

You got a C- in american history, you were so fucked.

Unless…

“Where are you taking us,” he growled, eyes flitting over to glare at you threateningly.

You clutched the steering wheel tightly, “The library,” you answered pseudo confidently. “You want to learn about Bucky? About yourself? We need to go there. I only remember so much from high school.” He huffed in begrudging agreement, and you silently pulled up beside the library and parked.

You thought that was the end of it.

You thought wrong.

Suddenly, he grabbed you by the wrist, grip so tight it’d probably leave bruises. “Listen to me,” he ordered, tone low and menacing. “If you tell a single soul about this, if you even  _ try _ to run, I will find out.” You stared at him, wide eyed and fearful. “I will hunt you down and make you pay. You understand me?” You nodded fervently. “Good,” he let go of your hand and turned to stare out the window.

You took a deep breath to compose yourself, unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding out the door. “I’ll be right back,” you said, slamming the door shut with a little more force than necessary. Hopefully that annoyed him, the bastard.

You walked through the front doors, head held high and shoulders rolled back as you tried to keep yourself together. You headed straight towards the history section, brushing past several others as you made your way to the back, ducking completely out of sight.

You browsed the shelves, fingers skimming over the spines as you searched for anything that could help. Textbooks, biographies, autobiographies, hell, even picture books. You took them all, dozens of books stacked in your arms as you waddled back out the door.

“Oh, dearie?” The elderly receptionist called after you, “did you check those out?”

You could say something, you could ask for help, you could tell her what was happening. You could—

_ “I will find out. I will hunt you down and make you pay.” _

“Yes ma’am,” you lied through your teeth, “I have a paper to write.”

“Good luck dear!” She smiled, waving at you as you walked out the door.

If only she knew.

Slowly, you walked back to the car, cherishing your final moments of semi-freedom before sliding back into the driver's seat. You tossed all the books into the back, turning to Bucky and saying, “there you go. Educate yourself.”

“You tell anyone?”

“No,” you said bitterly, “I didn’t.”

He searched your face, looking for any sign that you were lying. Satisfied with what he found, he nodded and looked away. “Drive.”

And so you did.

* * * *

“That’ll be $207.79,” the pimply cashier said, handing you the last of your many bags.

“Here,” you handed him a fat wad of cash. Bucky had given you the money, and you hadn’t questioned where it had come from. You had better things to worry about.

You two had been driving for hours, leaving the city of San Francisco—and any chance of rescue—far behind you. Cities became suburbs, suburbs became small towns, and small towns turned into winding roads. Nothing around for miles.

Nothing, that is, except for the 7/11 you were currently shopping at.

“Here’s your change,” the teenager said, handing you your money back. 

“Thanks,” you shoved the cash into your pocket. “Could you help me with all this?”

“Uh,” the boy looked unsure. “dunno if I’m supposed to.”

“C’mon, help a gal out,” you gestured to the portable grill and charcoal you had just bought. 7/11 really had everything. “At least carry those.”

“Okay,” the teen relented, throwing the bag over his shoulder and grabbing the grill.

“Thanks a million,” you said gratefully, grabbing the cases of water and stacking your bags on top. “Follow me.” You led the kid out the door and to your car, opening the trunk and haphazardly throwing the bags inside. “Put them down there.”

The teen placed the stuff on the ground, wiping his chalky hands off on his jeans. “Thank you for shopping at 7/11.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks kid,” you waved him off dismissively, tossing everything into the trunk.

“Bitch,” the teen muttered under his breath, turning around to head back inside.

You sighed heavily in frustration, placing the grill in the backseat and wiping sweat from your brow. “You could at least help me.”

Bucky was looming right behind you, completely silent. “Do you want me to kill him?” He asked, peering over your shoulder.

“No! What the fuck? He’s just a kid!” You whirled around to face him, expression twisted in disgust.

“He saw you, he’s a liability,” he said dully, “plus, he’s annoying.”

“That may be true,” you admitted. “But!” You added just as he drew his gun, “that doesn’t mean you should kill him.”

He huffed in annoyance, begrudgingly sliding his gun back into the holster. 

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed. “Oh, by the way,” you handed him the clothes you had just bought, “not the most stylish choices, but they’ll work.”

He took the clothes in hand, rubbing his thumb over the fabric distractedly. “This’ll do,” he said gruffly, tucking them under his arm.

More silence.

“So, Mr. B, what next?” You asked as you put the last bag away. “You got a plan?”

He tilted his head to the side in thought, “We need to stop them from tracking us.” He pointed to your license plate, having already swapped your old plate with someone else’s. “I’ll take them longer with that.”

You didn’t know who “they” were, and frankly, you were too afraid to ask.

“So, we should keep going then?” You wondered aloud, already walking towards the driver’s seat. “In that case--”

“There’s one last thing we need to do,” he interrupted, angling himself away from the store and pulling out a dangerously sharp knife. (Where was he even keeping those?)

_ Please don’t stab me. Please don’t stab me. Please don’t— _

He rolled up his left sleeve, digging the knife into his prosthesis and popping the metal plate loose. He began to rummage through the inner workings of his arm, pushing wires and blinking lights aside as he searched for...something.

“Come closer,” he ordered, and you obliged. “There should be a small, rectangular chip with a blinking red light; labeled ASET17. Remove it.”

“I’ve done weirder things in 7/11 parking lots,” you shrugged, gingerly probing the mechanics as you searched for the chip. “Can you feel anything?”

“No,” he lied, wincing slightly as you brushed past one of the wires.

“Uh-huh,” you hummed disbelievingly, “found it.” You pinched the chip between your fingernails and pried it loose. “What is this even supposed to do?”

“It’s a tracker,” he explained, sliding the metal plate back in place. He plucked the chip from your hands and stuck it under a nearby car. “They use it to track me down after missions.”

“Missions…” Your eyes widened as you connected the dots. “Wait, so you’re like, an assassin?”

His silence was answer enough.

“So you’re telling me, that one day you just  _ decided _ to become an immortal assassin? Because there’s no other logical explanation for this bullshit.” You gritted your teeth in both frustration and confusion, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers. “And who the hell is ‘they?’”

“Hydra.”

“And another thing—“ you screeched to a halt as you realized what he’d said. “Wait, Hydra? Like, Nazi Hydra? The one Captain America fought? The one that's supposed to be  _ gone? _ ”

“Yes.”

“What the hell,” you hissed, clutching your head in your hands, “you’re working for fucking  _ Hydra? _ You  _ fought  _ Hydra! What the actual everloving  _ fuck.” _

He watched calmly as you broke down, eyes cold and hard. “Are you done?”

“No, I’m not fucking done,” you seethed, “what the hell is wrong with you? You’re...you’re insane. You’re absolutely batshit crazy, Jesus fucking Christ.” He stood there silently, arms crossed as he waited for you to finish. “How can you just stand there!? You killed my friend, holy fuck,  _ you killed her.  _ You’re sick. You’re fucking sick. Are you even James Barnes? I don’t fucking know, you certainly don’t act like it. Hell, you don’t really look it, either. Fuck you, fuck your stupid ass metal arm, fuck your damn nazi organization, and fuck your ‘silent but deadly’ attitude. I’m sick of it!  _ Just fucking kill me!” _

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he growled, rushing forward and pinning you against the car door. “Don’t push me, you’re not that important.” 

“Fuck you,” you spat.“ _ Fuck you. _ Do you even know my name?” No answer. “I fucking thought so. We’re going on a goddamn cross country road trip and you don’t even have the decency to ask.”

“What’s your name,” he muttered, trying half-heartedly to appease you.

“I’m Y/N fucking Y/L/N,” you glared at him, a dark promise underlying your words. “and don’t you  _ ever _ forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	3. Rum On The Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the support and comments! The chapter title comes from Hozier's 'Cherry Wine', definitely recommend you give it a listen!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

If things were tense before, they were even more so now.

Bucky was quiet, scarily quiet. The type of quiet that made your hair stand on end and muscles tense. He wouldn't even look at you, eyes glued to the road as he scowled and glared at nothing. 

Call it a hunch, but you were _pretty_ sure he hated you.

And you hated him back.

You were sick with emotion, hatred coiling in your gut whenever you so much as looked at him. Bucky Barnes was supposed to be a hero, not a seventy year old assassin who worked for literal Nazis. You still couldn’t wrap your head around it, couldn’t comprehend the _how_ and _why_ of it all. It was hard enough to process that he was alive, let alone killing people in the name of some facist octopus cult. 

You stared out the window, tapping your fingers against the dashboard as you watched the great expanse of nothing roll by. You’d had your driving privileges revoked after your little...outburst, and could only watch as the two of you drove into Nevada. Any sense of hope shriveling like a raisin in the sun.

“Stop that,” Bucky snapped, not even bothering to spare you a glance.

You scowled, clenching your hands into fists as you stared down at your feet, “I’m not even doing anything.”

Ah, now he was looking at you. “Be quiet.”

You grit your teeth until your jaw ached, suppressing the urge to scream your throat raw. You just wanted it all to _stop_ , wanted everything to go back to normal. Back to when your biggest worries were trivial things like grocery shopping, not mass murder and government conspiracy’s.

Maybe you should keep tapping, just to annoy him. 

_Tap tap tap tap—_

“Stop,” he growled, grabbing your wrist and squeezing warningly. You wrenched your hand away, clutching your bruising wrist to your chest. You knew that he had let you go, knew that he could have pinned you without even trying. That was the scary part, just how easily he could overpower you. “You should rest, it would make you more agreeable.”

You didn’t trust Bucky while you were awake, let alone asleep. “That’s not happening.” His scowl deepened, eyebrows furrowing and lips pressing together into a tight line. “I’ll be more ‘agreeable’—” you accentuated your words with air quotes “—if you let me go.” 

Now you’d done it.

You’d pushed him to the edge so many times that it was practically routine. Invasive questions, pointed insults, inappropriate jokes; it was chicken soup for your spiteful soul. To be honest, it was a miracle that you were even still alive. 

And it looked like your luck had finally run out.

“I told you not to talk to me like that,” he said darkly, eyes flashing menacingly as he looked over to you.

“What’re you gonna do? Assassinate me?” you gasped, eyes wide with exaggerated shock, “oh wait!” You dramatically brought your hands to your cheeks, mouth shaped into a gaping ‘o’ as your eyebrows rose to your hairline.

Based on how he was looking at you, you could tell that he was tempted. He tilted his head to the side, looking you up and down as if he were scanning for weak points.

_Well, shit._

“You know what? I am exhausted, completely pooped, ready to hit the hay,” you yawned exaggeratedly, “really sorry about all that, I’m gonna sleep now.” You tilted your seat back and closed your eyes, purposefully angling yourself away from him.

There was no way in hell you were falling asleep. No way that you’d let the low hum of the car relax you, no way that you’d let the soft rumble of Bucky’s breathing lull you to sleep, no way that you’d let the—

And you were out like a light.

* * * *

_Everything was dark, too dark. Pitch black tendrils of nothingness reached out to caress your skin, stroking your cheek and begging you to join them._

_“Over here,” a wispy voice called, a thousand voices layered into one,“come here.” You waded through the darkness, ignoring the shifting faces that lurked in the shadows. Old and familiar, strange and foreign._

_“Don’t go.”_

_“Don’t leave us.”_

_“Come back.”_

_“Don’t leave again.”_

_The voices were quiet whispers that tickled at your mind, soft nothings that stroked your skin and tugged you forward._

_But that soon changed._

_A cacophony of voices rose up, screeching and wailing in warning. “He’s coming.”_

**_“He’s coming.”_ **

_Icy cold panic gripped your heart as you railed against the wall of darkness blocking your path. You couldn’t move you couldn’t move you couldn’t—_

_“This way,” someone called out, voice strong and clear. You whirled towards the sound and saw her._

_“Mimi?” You gasped, confusion marring your features._

_“Hurry!” She shouted, waving you over. “Hurry!”_

_You tried to run towards her, but something was holding you back. It was as if you were swimming through syrup, your feet practically stuck to the floor. “I can’t!”_

_“Hurry!” She screeched, an unholy sound tearing from her throat as black tar began to pour out of her mouth._

_“Mimi!” You screamed, rooted to the spot._

**_“He’s here,”_ ** _she choked out, falling forward and sinking into the darkness, revealing the man looming behind her. You tried to run, tried to scream, but you couldn’t. You were stuck, forced to watch as Bucky marched closer and closer._

_“Please,” you rasped, but it was no use. His metal arm surged forward and locked around your throat, choking the life out of you._

_And this time, there was no stopping him._

_“You couldn’t save her,” he said coldly, voice grating on your ears like nails on a chalkboard, “you couldn’t save_ **_them._ ** _”_

_“Please,” you said again, voice nothing more than a whisper._

_“Think about how_ **_they_ ** _felt._ **_You deserve this._ ** _”_

 _“Please…” You glanced down to your feet, eyes widening in horror as you saw what was happening. Marble was creeping up your legs, hardening your flesh into stone. “No!” You shouted, fighting back with sudden vigor. “_ No! _” The marble crept further up your legs, spreading across your chest and down your arms._

_“Wake up,” Bucky said, voice murky and distant. “You need to wake up.”_

_The marble spread up to your neck, the stone cracking and crumbling beneath his fingers, seconds away from shattering._

**_“Wake up.”_ **

You woke with a strangled scream, lurching forward and cradling your head in your hands. You gasped for breath, chest heaving as you took in great lungfuls of air. “Oh god,” you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut like a child.

“Here,” a gruff voice spoke, shoving a bottle of water into your hands. You were too shaken to refuse, so you clumsily unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow, spilling a little on your front. “Good.”

You opened your eyes and jumped, startled by how close Bucky was to you. He didn’t look worried, exactly, but he had a look of subdued concern which was almost endearing. 

You would’ve appreciated it more if he hadn’t kidnapped you. 

“Are you okay?” He questioned, reaching out to check your pulse. 

You flinched back on instinct, watching warily as he slowly retracted his hand. “I’m fine,” you said dryly, aggressively twisting the cap back on the bottle.

Thankfully, he didn’t push any further, sending you one last questioning look before turning back to the wheel.

“Wait,” you said meekly, “can I…can I put on some music?” He glanced over to you blankly, but you continued nonetheless. “I mean, there’s nothing else to look at.” You gestured to the empty desert outside the window. “And it’s not like we have anything better to do.” _And I don’t really want to think about my dream right now. I don’t really want to think about_ **_them._ **

More silence. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” you said slowly, reaching into the glove compartment and rifling through your case of CDs. You plucked a disc from the stack and slid it into the player, relaxing a little as the familiar chords rang through the air.

_Carry on my wayward son_

_For there'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more_

“Thanks,” you sighed, feeling slightly better with the nostalgic song playing in the background.

He didn’t say anything, but you could’ve sworn that a ghost of a smile flitted across his face

* * * *

Turns out, there was nothing to see in Nevada.

What a surprise.

It was just miles and miles of empty desert, nothing but cacti and a few dead bushes to break up the monotony. You were just about to go insane with boredom, and it had barely been more than a day. 

Bucky, however, was the exact opposite. He may as well have been a robot, focusing entirely on the task at hand and outright dismissing everything else. There was something mechanical about the way he operated, something robotic about his mannerisms. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t drink. You didn’t like it, not one bit. You were torn between wanting him to talk to you, and wanting him to leave you the hell alone.

On the one hand, you were extremely lonely and desperate for any sort of human interaction. On the other, you had no desire to become buddy-buddy with the guy who’d just kidnapped you. It seemed that he was having the same dilemma, or maybe not. It was hard to read him, to see anything beyond the blank mask he always wore.

He creeped you out, he really did.

Things were bad enough without the weird noises your car was making. You knew jack shit about engines, but you were _pretty_ sure they weren’t supposed to sound like a dying goat. But what did you know? Everything was completely fine, right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

All at once everything just....stopped. The noises, the car, hell, even the radio. It all just shut down, stranding you in the middle of the road.

“Well, shit,” you said eloquently, looking over to Bucky expectantly.

“Stay here,” he ordered, stepping out of the car and walking over to the front. He propped up the hood, fiddled with the inner mechanics for a moment, and slammed the hood closed in defeat; storming over to the back of the car.

“What are you--WOAH!” The car suddenly lurched forward, shaking and rumbling as Bucky slowly pushed it to the side of the road. “Holy fuck!” How could he do this? How could he push a whole ass car like it was nothing? 

“Y/N,” Bucky called, rapping his knuckles against the window and shaking you out of your stupor, “come out.” Dumbstruck, you opened the car door and stepped outside, following him over to the front of the car. He threw open the hood and gestured to the confusing mess of cables and pistons underneath, “can you fix this?” 

“I have no idea what any of this is,” you said bluntly, brows furrowing in thought. “I mean, I know the basics. But I think we need more than just an oil change.”

He huffed in annoyance, diving elbow deep into the machinery and rummaging around. “We might be here for awhile,” he observed, “go set up camp.”

You looked over your surroundings, dread rising in your gut as you realized exactly where you were.

You were nowhere. Stranded in the middle of absolutely _fucking_ nowhere.

Endless planes of sand stretched out as far as the eye could see, the night sky an infinite sea of inky darkness. There was nothing to break up the horizon, nothing to hint at civilization. Nothing but the dusty road that continued forever into the distance. No plant life, no water, no _people._ Just sand. _Fucking sand._

You were going to die. For real this time.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	4. Stranded: Day One

“Shine the light over here.”

“I can’t reach that far!”

“A little higher.”

“I’m _trying._ ”

“Try harder.”

“Well _excuse_ me. Sorry that my _keychain flashlight_ isn't good enough for you.”

“Just hold the light and be quiet.”

You whispered insults under your breath, balancing on your toes and reaching even further under the hood. The two of you had been working for what felt like hours, trying and failing to coax the dead engine back to life. Technically, Bucky was the one working while you just pointed the flashlight. But who cared about the specifics?

“Watch out,” he warned, pushing your hand away as he twisted two wires together. Sparks flew as the cables connected, electricity crackling and humming as the battery started up.

“Is it working?” You asked, ducking out from under the hood and looking around expectantly.

“I don’t—”

_Buddy, you’re a boy, make a big noise_

_Playing in the street, gonna be a big man some day_

_You got mud on your face, you big disgrace_

_Kicking your can all over the place, singing_

You peered inside the car, smiling triumphantly as you saw the dashboard light up. “Radio’s working!”

“And the engine?” Bucky questioned, but he already knew the answer.

“No,” you sighed, smile slipping off of your face, “but at least we have some tunes.”

_We will, we will rock you_

_We will, we will rock you_

“‘Tunes,’ aren’t going to help us survive,” he said cynically, turning back to the engine and fiddling with the mechanics some more.

“Don’t do Queen like that,” you frowned, twisting the knob and turning up the volume. “I could live off of Freddie Mercury’s vocals alone.”

_Buddy, you’re a young man, hard man_

_Shouting in the street gonna take on the world someday_

_You got blood in your face, you big disgrace_

_Waving your banner all over the place_

“Queen?” He asked, still focused on the engine in front of him.

“You’re kidding, right?” You gaped at him, struck dumb by his question. “You’ve _never_ heard of Queen?”

“...no,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“None of their songs? Not even Bohemian Rhapsody?”

“I don’t listen to music.”

“Dude, _everyone’s_ heard Bohemian Rhapsody. Even Nazi assassins have heard Bohemian Rhapsody.”

_We will, we will rock you_

_Sing it out_

_We will, we will rock you_

“You’re telling me you can push a two ton car but haven’t listened to Queen?

“Those aren’t related.”

“So?” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I just don’t understand how that’s humanly possible.”

_Buddy, you’re an old man, poor man_

_Pleading with your eyes gonna make you some peace someday_

_You got mud on your face, you big disgrace_

_Somebody better put you back into your place_

“Are you going to help with this or not?”

“Nah, you don’t need me. You have a replacement flashlight,” you pointed to the sun rising over the horizon. “Besides, I need to expose you to seventies music.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“If I’m going to be kidnapped by an assassin, I want that assassin to at least have good music taste,” you said resolutely, crossing your arms over your chest and staring him down.

_We will, we will rock you, sing it_

_We will, we will rock you, everybody_

_We will, we will rock you, hmm_

_We will, we will rock you, alright_

“Fine,” he relented. You nodded your thanks and slid into the passenger's seat, skipping ahead on the CD player and hitting play.

“You’ll thank me later,” you called out to him, rolling down the windows so he could hear the music.

_Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?_

_Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality_

_Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see_

_I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy_

_Because I’m easy come, easy go, little high, little low_

_Any way the wind blows doesn’t really matter to me, to me_

“What even is this?” He asked, locking eyes with you through the windshield and raising a questioning brow.

“Bohemian Rhapsody,” you explained, “just listen.”

And he did.

* * * *

“So, what do you think?” 

“It was long.” 

“I mean, yes, but what else?”

“...”

“C’mon, give me something to go by.”

“...it was good.”

“Hell yeah! Want to hear another?”

“...”

“I’m playing it anyway.”

“...okay.” 

* * * *

Apparently, the desert was hot.

Who knew.

The brutal summer sun beat down on your shoulders, an unrelenting heat that made you sweat and pant profusely. There were no clouds to be seen, no shade in sight. You were literally in hell. “Next time, kidnap me during the winter,” you complained miserably, wiping sweat off your brow with the back of your hand.

Bucky snorted, rifling through the fuse box in a fruitless attempt to restart the car. You admired his dedication, but enough was enough.

“Give it a rest, won’t you?” You groaned, reaching into the backseat and grabbing the grill. “It’s a lost cause.”

He sent a withering glare your way.

“Suit yourself,” you shrugged, setting the grill on the ground with a heavy thump. “The car’s a piece of shit. I’m surprised it hasn’t broken sooner.”

“Has it done this before?” He wondered, eyeing the engine critically.

“Sorta?” You answered unconvincingly, sidling up beside him. “Usually a few slaps to the dashboard will start her back up.”

“I doubt it’ll work this time.”

“True.” You nodded, patting the engine fondly. “This baby’s seen better days.”

“I’ll say,” he huffed, slamming the fuse box shut with a little more force than necessary.

“Hey! Only I’m allowed to hit her!” You pouted, petting the fuse box apologetically. “You’ve upset her.”

“‘She’ is a car, an inanimate object,” he said patronizingly, looking at you as if you were a child. “It is incapable of emotion.”

“I know that,” you scoffed, “it’s just for fun.”

“Oh,” he said amusedly, as if that thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“You need to chill, dude,” you advised, “don’t take everything so seriously.” He hummed consideringly, walking away and slipping into the driver’s seat. “What’re you—“

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

You jumped, startled by the sound of someone loudly slapping the dashboard. “Jesus Christ!”

Bucky poked his head out the door and asked, almost smugly, “did I fix it?”

A startled laugh burst from your chest, and then another, and another. Soon enough, you were doubled over with laughter, hunched over and wheezing from the force of it. “No,” you choked out, “still broken.”

“Worth a try,” he shrugged, standing up and walking back over as if nothing had happened.

“Did you use your metal arm?” You wheezed, “maybe that would help.”

“Funny,” he deadpanned, and you laughed again, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. 

The shift in the atmosphere was almost palpable, like a storm cloud passing over a beach. 

He tensed up upon contact, metal arm clicking and whirring in warning. He looked ready to fight; feet planted and fists ready to swing, face cleared of all emotion. You quickly backed away, putting a few feet of distance between you for safety’s sake.

“Easy there, calm down,” you said soothingly, hands held up in submission. His gaze locked onto yours, eyes dark and dangerous. There was nothing behind his eyes, nothing except for anger and the smallest hint of fear. 

A gasp slipped past your lips as you were suddenly transported back to that fateful night, panic rising as you felt the ghost of his fingers wrap around your neck. “Forget it,” you said submissively, fleeing to the other side of the car, “I’ll keep setting up camp, don’t mind me.” 

You were used to this, used to easy banter being overshadowed by reality. You were captor and captive, nothing more, nothing less. 

Besides, why would you be friends with someone who willingly worked for Hydra?

* * * *

“What’re you doing?” Bucky asked, curiously peering over your shoulder.

You yelped in surprise, whirling around to face him. “Don’t scare me like that,” you admonished, laying a hand over your racing heart. You were kneeling on the ground, and the way he was looming over you put you on edge.

“What are you doing?” He asked again, pointing to the sand directly in front of you.

“Oh, uh,” you gestured vaguely to the scribbles scattered around you, “I’m drawing.”

“In the sand?” He questioned, leaning closer to get a better look.

“Well, it’s not like I have anything else to draw with.” You explained, dusting off your sand coated index finger. “And _someone_ didn’t let me pack my art supplies,” you glared at him accusingly, arms crossed over your chest.

“What are you drawing?” He asked, blatantly ignoring your insult.

You stood up and pointed to the spot just beside you, “stand here.” He followed your lead and obediently fell in line, looking out over the sandy plane.

“Wow,” he whispered under his breath, eyes widening at the sight of your drawing; a sprawling forest. It was a landscape drawing, simple in theory, yet unbelievably detailed and complex in execution. Each grain of sand was placed flawlessly, painstakingly positioned in order to form the perfect picture. “You did this?” He asked disbelievingly, looking at you with baffled amazement.

“No, it was the aliens,” you deadpanned.

He knelt down and gingerly poked the sand, experimentally trailing his fingers through the grain. “How?” He squinted up at you, handfuls of sand slipping through his fingers.

You knelt down beside him and showed him your technique, fingers skimming gracefully over the sand. “Like that,” you instructed, demonstrating it again.

He eagerly copied your motions, moving clumsily at first, but quickly getting the hang of it. “Like this?” He wondered, pointing to his own drawing like an excited toddler.

He’d drawn a perfect diagram of a handgun.

“...yes.” You answered, choosing your next words very carefully. “But art isn’t just...diagrams. Try drawing something else.”

His brow furrowed in deep thought, lips pressed together as he decided on what to draw next. Slowly his fingers dragged across the ground, carefully crafting another piece. Like this he was almost...normal, just a regular guy who happened to have a metal arm. It was difficult to hate him like this, difficult to remember just why you despised him so much. 

“How about this one?” He asked, looking at you with pride in his eyes.

You looked at his sketch and nodded approvingly, “awesome.” You pointed to the bottom of his drawing, “I like how you used shadows to show that it’s a flying car.”

He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but you could tell that he was enjoying himself. “I like this,” he said, more to himself than anything.

“Well, you’re good at it,” you praised, “maybe you should be an artist instead.”

He looked at you with wide eyes, as if even the idea of it was impossible. “I—”

“Shit, wind!” You warned, diving forward and protecting his drawing with your body. Sand spiraled and churned as wind blew through the dunes, reshaping the land to its liking. You squeezed your eyes shut, only opening them once the wind had fully died down.

“Your drawing’s gone,” Bucky observed, a hint of sadness to his voice.

You sat up, dusting yourself off and blinking the sand from your eyes, “I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.” You glanced down, letting out a relieved sigh as you saw that his drawing was still intact. “Yours is fine, though.”

“You’re not upset?”

“That’s just life,” you shrugged. “Stuff like that happens all the time.” You glanced up towards the sky, taking note of the sun slowly sinking below the horizon. “I have time for one more drawing, any ideas?”

He looked down at his sketch thoughtfully, gently tracing his finger over the line work. “...a skyline.”

“Alright, one skyline coming up.”

* * * *

“Ta-da!”

“...”

“Admire it now, ‘cause you won’t be able to see it once the sun goes down.”

“I like it. It’s...familiar.”

“Glad that someone likes my art.”

“...”

“Shit, winds coming. It was fun while it lasted.”

“...thank you.”

“What was that?”

“...”

“And...it’s gone. Argh, I think I got sand in my eyes.”

“...”

“Anyways, I’m hungry. Do you like ravioli?”

“...sure.”

* * * *

“This is not al dente,” you groused, poking at the slimy ravioli pastas in the aluminum can. “I expected more from—“ you read the label “—Chef Boyardee's inbred cousin ‘Chef Boierrdei.’”

Bucky barely looked up from his own serving, shoveling pasta into his mouth so fast his hand was practically a blur. He’d been suspicious of what you’d given him at first, but once he’d confirmed it wasn’t poisoned, he’d scarfed it down like a five star meal.

“At least one of us is enjoying this.” You poked the charcoal with the tip of your metal spork, stoking the flames and chasing away the darkness of the night. The only lights in the endless, pitch black desert were the moon, your crappy charcoal grill, and the flickering lights of your sedan. Not exactly comforting.

If he killed you now, nobody would know.

It scared you, just how quickly you’d grown comfortable around him. He’d _kidnapped_ you, he’d killed _god knows how many people._ Yet here you were, practically wrapped around his pinky finger. Was this Stockholm Syndrome? Was this how Belle felt with the Beast? 

“Thank you,” he said genuinely, scooping up the last vestiges of sauce with his spork. “I’m not allowed to eat like this.”

What exactly did he mean by that? “What do you usually eat?”

“I don’t.” 

Huh?

“They give me a feeding tube after missions.”

_Huh?_

“What the fuck?” You sputtered, choking on your pasta. “ _Seriously?”_

He looked at you as if that was the most normal thing in the world. “...yes?”

“That’s fucked up.”

He stared down at his food in silent contemplation. “...mhm.”

“Well, anytime you want shitty ravioli, just come to me,” you offered, finishing off the last few pieces of pasta in your can. 

He stayed quiet, leaning against the car as he sat in the sand, the dying flames of the grill reflecting off of his face. 

“Y’know what, you should get some rest,” you said, standing up off the ground, “I don’t think I’ve seen you sleep once this entire time.” _And I don’t want to sleep yet. I don’t want to dream about you or Mimi or_ **_them._ **

He looked at you suspiciously, searching your face for any ulterior motive.

“It’s not like I could run anywhere,” you gestured to the flat planes of nothing stretching out in every direction. “And there’s no way that I’d be able to kill you.” 

He sent you an unimpressed glare.

“Okay, that might not be very reassuring,” you admitted. “But you need to sleep at some point, might as well be now.” He raised an unconvinced brow. “I can keep watch!”

That convinced him.

Reluctantly, he stood up, dusting himself off and sliding into the driver's seat. “You see anything, anything at all. Wake me up.”

“Yes sir,” you promised, giving him a mock salute. He seemed to already be regretting his decision, but he leaned back and closed his eyes, slipping into the lightest of dozes.

You let out a soft sigh, staring up at the stars and catching sight of the Little Dipper. “Guess it’s just you and me, huh?”

The stars blinked.

* * * *

“...”

“...”

“Uh, are you okay?”

“...”

“C’mon, you need to wake up.”

“...no…no, please.”

“Hey, it’s just a dream. Wake up.”

“...please don’t...please...no.”

“Oh god, what do I do? Uh, Bucky? You need to wake up.”

“No...no...no no no!”

“Shit, wake up!”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	5. Stranded: Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=D9ioyEvdggk

You should’ve known better, should’ve known not to try and wake him up.

But when you’d seen his face, you’d cracked. He just looked so...pained, so uncharacteristically fearful and terrified that it made your heart ache. 

So, foolishly, you woke him up.

And boy, did you regret it.

“It’s me,” you whispered, trying desperately to calm him down before something bad happened. He flinched away from you, eyes wide and glazed over with fear. His whole body shook with bone shaking tremors, teeth chattering as if he were frozen solid. He gripped the console until his knuckles went white, grip shaky and unsure. You knew how he felt, knew what it was like to be forced out of a nightmare. It wasn’t pretty.

“It was just a dream,” you reassured him, grounding him to reality. “Whatever happened, it’s over. It’s done.” He looked unconvinced, chest heaving with uneven breaths. You weren’t going to lie to him, weren’t going to give him any false hopes or promises. You’d had enough for a lifetime. “You’re okay now.”

He relaxed ever so slightly, eyes locking onto yours with sudden clarity. “Is everything alright?” You asked kindly, voice soft and eyes softer.

He looked shocked, as if he wasn’t used to people actually caring about him. “I—” he began hesitantly, fearful of your reaction. “I’m…I’m cold.”

Not what you expected...but okay.

“C’mere,” you waved him over, gently coaxing him out of the car. He obediently followed after you, collapsing onto the sand and huddling next to the grill. “Stay back,” you warned, sprinkling lighter fluid onto the dying coals and adding a few more fresh briquettes. The fire roared back to life, casting a warm, healthy glow across his gaunt face. He shivered and leaned closer to the blaze, arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

“Hold on a second,” you said to him, turning to the car and opening the trunk. “Aha!” You pulled out an old, woolen blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, “I knew this would come in handy eventually.”

He tentatively ran his hand over the fabric, as if at any second you would rip it away. “...thank you.”

“Anytime,” you shrugged, “I’ve been there before.” You smiled tightly at him, sad and somewhat nostalgic. “If you want to talk...I’m here.”

_(Y/N, you idiot, why are you offering your kidnapper therapy. Did you already contract Stockholm Syndrome you dumb—)_

He nodded absentmindedly, pulling the blanket tighter around him as he stared into the flickering flames. “It’s just...They make me...It’s so—it’s cold,” he finished dully.

“It’ll pass,” you assured him, carefully sitting down beside him. He tensed up, protectively clutching the blanket to his chest. ”I know it will.”

He looked at you questioningly.

“I get sleep paralysis a lot. I’ll have a dream where I can’t move, and once I ‘wake up’—” You made air quotes. “—I’m still frozen.”

“Is that what—“

“Yes,” you interrupted. “Yes, that’s what happened last time. Just...without the paralysis part.”

_(Y/N, shut the actual fuck up. You haven’t talked to anyone about this, why are you opening up to the goddamn Nazi assassin. What—)_

He looked at you carefully, understanding dawning on his face. “Oh.”

“Mhm,” you hummed awkwardly, wishing you had kept your big mouth shut.

“Could you—“ he began, swallowing hesitantly before continuing, “Could you...put on your music?”

“Huh?” You intoned, looking to him and raising a brow in confusion.

“You put on your music last time after your…” he trailed off, looking away from you and staring off into the distance.

“Do you think it would help?” You asked, tilting your head and trying to catch his eye. He shrugged noncommittally, refusing to make eye contact. “Seventies, eighties, or nineties?”

“What?”

“What decade; seventies, eighties, or nineties?”

He took a moment to consider, distractedly fiddling with the frayed edge of the blanket. “...seventies.” You nodded, standing up and slipping into the front seat of the car. You rummaged through the glove compartment and grabbed the disc labeled ‘70s’, sliding it into the CD player and pressing play. 

The slow paced, medieval-esque introduction started up; the poor man's version of Bach’s Bourrée in E minor. 

_There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold_

_And she's buying a stairway to heaven_

_When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed_

_With a word she can get what she came for_

“What’s this?” He questioned, leaning back against the car.

“Stairway to Heaven, by Led Zeppelin,” you sat down next to him, tilting your head back and staring up at the stars. “A band, not one person. I made that mistake when I was thirteen.”

_Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven_

“It’s...interesting,” he mused, staring down at the ground. “I don’t know.”

You shook your head. “Don’t just listen to the music. _Listen_ to the music.”

He looked at you as if you were crazy. And, debatably, you were.

_There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure_

_'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings_

_In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings_

_Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven_

You recognized the look on his face immediately; you’d seen it in the mirror far too many times. He was getting stuck in his own head, entrapped by his own insecurities and fears. 

You had to distract him, had to draw him away from his crippling thoughts. And you did it the only way you knew how.

Over sharing.

_Ooh, makes me wonder_

_Ooh, makes me wonder_

“I remember listening to this for the first time,” you said nostalgically, distracting him from his brooding. “I didn’t really get it at first.” 

He listened politely, turning his head to look at you.

_There's a feeling I get when I look to the west_

_And my spirit is crying for leaving_

_In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees_

_And the voices of those who stand looking_

“I was thirteen. No attention span, no patience, no real concept of religion or mortality.”

_Ooh, makes me wonder_

_Ooh, really makes me wonder_

“I only listened to it because my Dad wanted me to, and I hardly ever saw him.” You sighed heavily, closing your eyes and feeling the fire’s warmth on your skin. “I just wanted to make him happy.”

_And it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune_

_Then the piper will lead us to reason_

_And a new day will dawn for those who stand long_

_And the forests will echo with laughter_

“Then I realized what the song meant. And it took me awhile, ‘cause I’m an idiot.” You laughed at your own expense. “The lyrics were up to the listeners interpretation, and for the first time, I had something that was _mine._ Something that _no one_ could take from me.”

_If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now_

_It's just a spring clean for the May queen_

_Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run_

_There's still time to change the road you're on_

“I listened to the song so much even my Dad got sick of it, and my Mother banned it from her house.” You smiled at the memory. “Jokes on her, I’d already memorized the whole thing.”

He huffed a laugh, and you chuckled alongside him.

_And it makes me wonder_

_Ohhhh, woah_

“So just...just give it a chance, okay?”

He smiled, the slightest upturn of his lips that you hardly even noticed. “Okay.”

_Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know_

_The piper's calling you to join him_

_Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know_

_Your stairway lies on the whispering wind_

The famous guitar solo began, the familiar chords making your heart race with pure nostalgia. You bopped your head to the beat, losing yourself to the ebb and flow of the music. Bucky relaxed slightly at your antics, loosening his grip on the blanket and settling back against the car.

You grinned widely, throwing your head back and singing along.

_“And as we wind on down the road_

_Our shadows taller than our soul_

_There walks a lady we all know_

_Who shines white light and wants to show_

_How everything still turns to gold_

_And if you listen very hard_

_The tune will come to you at last_

_When all are one and one is all_

_To be a rock and not to roll_

_And she's buying a stairway to heaven”_

“So,” you panted, winded after singing your heart out, “whaddaya think?

He took a moment to reflect, staring up at the night sky dappled with the pinks of dawn. “I think I like music.”

You smiled softly. “Me too, Bucky. Me too.”

* * * *

“If we had an actual wrench, fixing the car would be a lot easier.”

“...”

“Unless your metal arm is like Inspector Gadget’s. If that’s the case, then we’d be done by tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“...”

“...”

“Y’know, the cartoon...with the smart dog...and the niece named after a coin.”

“...what.”

“You seriously don’t know?”

“No...”

“If we find a TV, I’ll show you.”

“Alright.”

* * * *

The day passed by in a blur, and soon enough, it was night once again. The stars burned brightly against the backdrop of the night sky, the Little Dipper shimmering merrily amongst the glow. Cans of tomato soup bubbled atop the charcoal grill, the delicious smell of cooking permeating the air as you both huddled around the flames.

“Want some more soup?” You offered, eyeing the empty aluminum can beside him. He shook his head no, burying his nose deeper into one of the books you’d ‘borrowed.’ “More for me,” you shrugged, scooping tomato soup into your mouth and licking the back of the spork.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, scanning the page over and over as he mouthed the words printed on the paper. “Is that—Is that me?” He turned the book towards you, pointing to the grainy photograph at the top of the page.

You squinted and leaned forward, scrutinously examining the black and white image. It was him alright; shorter hair, wide smile, bright eyes. Exactly the opposite of what you’d come to expect of him. “Yeah,” you nodded, “that’s you.”

He flipped the book around and stared at the picture disbelievingly, “but...it can’t be.”

“It is, though,” You answered him. “Sure, you’ve changed a little,” you pointed to his metal arm. “But you were him at one point, and you still are, in a way.”

He screwed his face together, gripping the book so tightly that the spine began to buckle. “No...no, I’m not him…”

_(Goddamnit Y/N, he’s having an identity crisis. Maybe he’ll actually kill you this time.)_

“Listen, I don’t know what the problem is, but you _are_ him. You _are_ Bucky Barnes. I don’t understand why—”

“No, I’m not!” He shouted, suddenly jumping to his feet. You threw yourself backwards, fully prepared to book it across the desert. “I’m not him _,_ I _never_ was him. I couldn’t be, I _can’t_ be. I’m not _human_ ; I’m the Soldat, the Asset, the Winter Soldier. I’m not...I can’t be...I wasn’t…” He started mumbling rapidly in Russian, one phrase repeated over and over in a monotonous tone of voice. He grabbed the book and tossed it into the fire, watching blankly as the paper blackened and burned. “Hail Hydra.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you whispered breathlessly, watching wide eyed as he essentially _shut down_ . “Hey, hey! Eyes on me! His eyes snapped to yours, completely wiped of all emotion and humanity. “ _Breathe.”_

He obediently took a deep breath, shoulders tensing and suddenly slumping forward. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the ground, sand billowing out from around him as he fell.

_(Now’s the time, Y/N. Just run, choose a direction and run. There’s gotta be a gas station out there somewhere. You can call 911 and—)_

“Holy shit, are you okay?” You rushed over to him and knelt by his side, reaching out towards him and pulling away at the last second. “Talk to me, c’mon!”

His dead eyes locked onto yours, mouth falling open and a tortured scream bursting forth from his chest. His back arched off of the ground as if he were being electrocuted, head violently thrashing from side to side. A steady stream of broken pleas spilled from his lips, becoming more and more disjointed until it devolved into pained screaming. “Please, please, please. No more, please stop. I’ll comply, I will! Please don’t!”

“Bucky!” You shouted, grabbing his head and cradling it in your lap. He was too far gone to fight back, occasionally clipping your side with his flailing limbs. “You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?” Your words barely registered, his head lolling back as another bout of screaming began. He screamed until his throat was raw, screamed until his voice broke and went mute. And even then he kept going, painful whimpers tumbling from his lips like sparks off a fire. “You’re almost through it, c’mon. Everything’s gonna be fine,” you reassured him, petting his hair away from his face.

 _(God-fucking-damnit Y/N, you just_ had _to get attached to the brain damaged assassin, didn’t you. Stockholm Syndrome doesn’t even begin to cover this bullshit—)_

With one last broken yell, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell unconscious; his body going completely limp in your arms. The silence was sudden, slamming into you like a runaway freight train. The Little Dipper blinked and flickered worriedly, the stars buzzing nervously like fireflies. 

For a second you were quiet, struck dumb with panic and confusion. There was nobody else in the desert, nobody but you and the broken man in your arms.

You were completely and utterly _alone_.

_Again._

“What just happened?” You shouted, breaking the silence like a china plate. Calling out for an answer that no one could give. “What’s wrong with him?”

And then, everything clicked into place. Every little action and reaction, every word spoken and unspoken; it all fit together into one gigantic, fucked up puzzle.

_“It’s a tracker. They use it to track me down after missions.”_

“ _I’m the Soldat, the Asset, the Winter Soldie_ r.”

_“They make me…”_

_“I’m not human._ ”

_“They give me a feeding tube after missions.”_

_“I’ll comply, I will!”_

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

Oh.

_Oh._

You gently laid Bucky down on the ground, propping his head up with the blanket before stumbling over to the car. You threw the door open and grabbed one of the biographies from the stack, skimming through it and quickly finding what you were looking for.

“Sergeant James Barnes lost his life during a mission to capture Nazi scientist Arnim Zola.” you read aloud. “After boarding a train traveling through the Swiss Alps, Sergeant Barnes saved Captain Rogers’ life and subsequently fell from the locomotive. His body was never recovered, and he was assumed dead after the mission concluded.” You huffed, “well, we know that's not true.” You looked over to the very much alive James Barnes, your eyes lingering on the metal arm poking out of his sweater sleeve.

An arm that he had probably lost in the fall.

A fall that his body was never recovered from.

A fall that he very well could’ve _survived._

And just like that, the final gruesome puzzle piece slid into place; understanding dawning on you like a mushroom cloud after an explosion.

It all made sense, didn’t it? Why the hell would Bucky Barnes—an American hero—ever work for the enemy? Why would he ever _willingly_ join them?

It’s because he _didn’t._

“Oh god,” you gasped, the book slipping from your grasp and falling to the ground with a muted thud. “ _Oh god!”_

What the hell had they _done_ to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	6. Stranded: Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, they’re communicating :)
> 
> I don’t feel too strongly about this chapter, but I had to get it posted. Nevertheless, hope you enjoy!

_ “Sorry for calling you a batshit crazy psychopath. My bad.” _

_ “Oops, guess you weren’t a Nazi after all. That’s on me.” _

_ “Yeah, I was completely wrong about you and everything that you stood for. Whoopsie daisy, happens to everyone.”  _

You groaned in annoyance, burying your face in your hands as you struggled to think of a proper apology. Night bled into day as the sun rose to its peak, casting its brutal rays onto the barren earth. It was the hottest day yet, and you were completely and utterly  _ miserable _ . The sand was melting into glass panes, the air was shimmering and wavering from the stifling heat. It sucked absolute  _ balls _ , and you had nobody conscious to complain to.

Bucky had yet to show any sign of waking, his unconscious body cooking alive beneath the hot sun. Overcome with pity, you hooked your elbows under his arms and dragged him over to the car, opening the front and back doors and draping a blanket over them like a tent. You carefully nestled him in the little enclave, shading him from the sun before busying yourself with other menial tasks.

It was hours before he finally woke up.

He crawled out from under the blanket like a hermit, squinting as the bright sun assaulted his senses. He sat up on his haunches, looking around wearily before his gaze locked onto yours. His eyes were tired and haunted, dark circles hollowing out his sallow cheeks.

“You look like shit,” you commented, wincing as you realized just how insensitive that was. You’d had this whole apology speech prepared, and your dumbass had ruined it just like that.

He blinked at you in exhaustion, heaving up onto his feet and lazily rolling his shoulders back. You rocked back and forth on the soles of your feet, debating whether or not to move forward or remain still. You chose the latter.

“Listen I...uh—” you stammered, struggling to breach the subject.

“Don’t,” he interrupted, looking at you almost pleadingly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay then,” you let out a soft sigh, “we don’t have to.” He relaxed at your reassurance, walking over to the front of the car and popping open the hood.

You sighed again, toeing a line in the sand and wiping your brow. You couldn’t deny that you were somewhat relieved at his refusal, relieved that you didn’t have to talk about it just yet. You were never good at that sort of stuff, especially in a complicated situation like this. 

Yes, he’d kidnapped you and killed your only friend, but some  _ really _ fucked up shit had happened to make him do it. Fundamentally, you knew that. But that didn’t stop your monkey brain from screaming  _ danger danger danger  _ whenever he approached.

Well, you could beat your monkey brain into submission later. ‘Cause right now, you had to figure out what exactly was going on.

And it wasn't going to be easy.

* * * *

_ You were alone in the darkness, wading through an inky pool of pitch black tar. Voices called out from the distance, warbling echoes of fear and despair. _

_ “Don’t leave us.” _

_ “Come back.” _

_ “Don’t go.”  _

_ Stone started creeping up your legs, freezing you in place like a Grecian statue.  _

_ “Don't leave  _ **_me_ ** _.” _

_ Marble closed in around your chest, inching up your neck and encircling your skull. You couldn’t move you couldn’t move you couldn’t— _

“—just a dream.” You sat up with a stuttered gasp, bringing your hands to your chest and nearly sobbing when you felt flesh instead of stone. You glanced upwards and startled when you saw Bucky looming over you, his face twisted with concern, “you’re okay now.”

“I—” you choked on your words, swallowing down the lump in your throat. The sun beat down on your face, reminding you that you were  _ alive.  _ Not stone, not marble,  _ alive. _

“It’s over, it’s done,” he reassured you, parroting your words from the day before.

_ Is it?  _ You thought hysterically.  _ Is it really?  _ You stood up with a groan, dusting the sand off your pants and leaning against the side of the car. “Hey, don’t worry about me,” you snapped your fingers and awkwardly made finger guns. “Everything’s A-okay, all good, peachy keen.”

He fixed you with an unconvinced look, raising a suspicious brow as you smiled at him.

“I’m just gonna…” you gestured towards the radio, “y’know...” He nodded his head in understanding, and you ducked inside the car and slid in a disc. Not even caring what song was about to play.

_ Yesterday _

_ All my troubles seemed so far away _

_ Now it looks as though they're here to stay _

_ Oh, I believe in yesterday _

You massaged your temples with your fingertips, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to banish the nightmare from your mind. You’d thought that you’d gotten over them, had finally pushed them away with your various—unhealthy—coping mechanisms. 

But now they were back, stronger and more realistic than ever before. They’d never been this...abstract. But then again, you’d never had to worry about  _ him  _ before.

But you didn’t have to worry anymore, right? Wasn’t that what you’d come to realize?

_ Suddenly _

_ I'm not half the man I used to be _

_ There's a shadow hanging over me _

_ Oh, yesterday came suddenly _

But you didn’t  _ know _ that. You didn’t know  _ anything,  _ really. You had nothing more than a few half baked conspiracy theories, desperate explanations to help make sense of the crazy situation you’d been thrust into.

And theories aren’t always accurate.

_ Why she had to go _

_ I don't know, she wouldn't say _

_ I said something wrong _

_ Now I long for yesterday _

Hell, was he even part of Hydra? Was Hydra  _ actually  _ still around, or was he simply fucking with you? Had you just taken everything at face value without bothering to ask questions?

Yes, yes you had.

Or at least, your questions had been ignored.

The guy’s very existence was a walking contradiction, going against everything that should and shouldn’t exist. He  _ seemed  _ like the real thing,  _ seemed  _ like he was telling the truth. But in the end, “seeming” meant nothing. “Seeming” was nothing more than a dressed up lie. 

You knew that better than most.

_ Seeming  _ happy.

_ Seeming  _ secure.

_ Seeming  _ safe.

All lies.

_ Yesterday _

_ Love was such an easy game to play _

_ Now I need a place to hide away _

_ Oh, I believe in yesterday _

But...you couldn’t help but believe him. You looked into his eyes and saw a well of pain, a tormented soul railing behind metaphorical bars. You could relate to him, could relate to having your world shattered and needing to pick up the pieces.

Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it was something else entirely; but you wanted to help him. Sure, it might all be a lie, but it was a damn good one nonetheless.

Then you remembered what had happened the other night, and any sense of doubt faded away.

_ Why she had to go _

_ I don't know, she wouldn't say _

_ I said something wrong _

_ Now I long for yesterday _

He couldn't be lying, it wasn’t possible. _No one_ could lie that effectively, could fake a literal seizure and mental breakdown so easily.

Right?

Right.

Anything to make sense of what was going on.

_ Yesterday _

_ Love was such an easy game to play _

_ Now I need a place to hide away _

_ Oh, I believe in yesterday _

“What song is this?” Bucky asked, looking up from the engine and locking eyes with you.

“ _ Yesterday _ , by The Beatles,” you explained, “they’re, like, the most popular rock band of all time.”

“Oh,” he marveled. “Could you...put on another?” He asked sheepishly, averting eye contact and staring down at the engine.

“Sure thing,” you nodded, skipping ahead on the CD player and hitting play.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to yours before glancing away.

You smiled kindly, pushing your worries to the back of your mind. “No problem.”

* * * *

“I think I like The Beatles.”

“Then you have good taste, my friend. By the way, you’re welcome.”

“...?”

“You’re welcome for shaping your  _ excellent  _ music taste. It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.

“...”

“I expect a payment of approximately eight hundred dollars for my services. No more and no less.”

“Here.”

“ _Holy_ _crap—!_ Where’d you get all that money!?”

“Oh…it’s a joke.”

“Yeah.”

“...”

“I’m glad you like the music.”

“...me too.”

* * * *

You were sorting through the charcoal supply when you heard it; a loud metallic snap that echoed through the desert like a gunshot. It was the sound of something breaking, something irreplaceable being shattered to pieces.

_ Oh no... _

“Fuck!” Bucky bellowed, slamming the hood shut and stumbling back. You froze in place, spine hunched forward as you knelt on the ground. “ _ Fuck! _ ”

Everything was quiet, no sound except for the soft whistling of the wind. You trembled slightly, terrified by his sudden outburst. “What happened?”

He grit his teeth as he whirled around to face you, “I can’t fix it.”

“What?” You breathed, eyes widening in panic.

“ _ I can’t fix it, _ ” he repeated, clenching and unclenching his fists as he took another shaky step back.

You slowly rose to your feet, tentatively walking towards him with your hands held out soothingly, “hey, it’s okay. We can just—”

He backed away just as fast as you approached, breathing fast and uneven. “No, no, no,” he muttered to himself, his panic reminding you of what had happened the day before. 

“Deep breaths, deep breaths,” you soothed, gradually inching closer, “we’ll figure something out.”

“They’ll find us—We need to...I need to…”

“Everything's gonna be fine, you hear me?” You reassured, moving to stand right in front of him. He looked at you warily, teetering between staying in place and taking another step back. You reached out towards him, dropping your arms to your sides as he unconsciously flinched back. “Just...don’t freak out on me, okay?”

He held your gaze, eyes wide and somewhat vulnerable. His lips parted and brow furrowed thoughtfully, mulling something over in his head. You wished you knew what he was thinking, wished you could pluck out his thoughts and lay them out in front of you like a jigsaw puzzle. “Okay…” he said tentatively, “okay.”

You smiled encouragingly, “glad we have all that sorted out.” You boldly lay a hand on his right shoulder, squeezing reassuringly when he didn’t back away, “listen, I need to ask you about something.”

He glanced at your hand clasped around his shoulder, muscles tensing as his jaw ticked. His expression shifted from calm to panicked to terrified in a matter of seconds, shuttering and going blank soon after. “I need to leave,” he said suddenly, shrugging off your hand and beginning to back away.

“What do you mean  _ leave?”  _ You sputtered, thrown off kilter by his sudden mood shift. 

“I need to…” he didn’t even finish his sentence, turning around as if in a trance and sprinting down the road. He had nothing, nothing but the clothes on his back and the terror in his heart.

But that didn’t stop him from trying.

“Bucky!” You shouted, immediately running after him, “ _ Bucky!”  _ He was inhumanly fast, moving at speeds impossible for the average man. Clouds of sand were kicked up as he ran, his arms pumping as he cut through the air like a knife. You were far less graceful, panting and stumbling as you chased after him. “Don’t leave me here!”

For a moment he hesitated, glancing back at you for just a second.

“ _ Please,”  _ you begged.  _ I haven’t even apologized yet. _

Then the moment was over, and he turned away.

“Fuck! Don’t...you can’t…” you collapsed onto your knees, watching helplessly as he became nothing more than a dot in the distance. You gasped for breath, anger leaching out of you like water wrung from a dishrag. “You can’t…” 

_ He left you like you left  _ **_her_ ** _ all those years ago _ **_._ ** Your treacherous mind supplied, poking at your oh-so-tender insecurities and fears.

_ This is how  _ **_she_ ** _ felt. _

_ This is how  _ **_she_ ** _ suffered. _

**_This is all your fault._ **

Anger reignited, you threw your head back and screamed, “ _ FUCKING ASSHOLE! _ ” You punched the ground, sand billowing out from around you as you thrashed and kicked. “Fuck. You. You. Fuck. Ing. Douche. Bag!” You punctuated each syllable with another jab, your knuckles scraped and bloodied by the sharp edged grains. “I—I’m...I’M SORRY!”

And just like that, the fight drained out of you. Your shoulders slumped, head bowing as reality crashed over you like an icy wave.

You were abandoned, left to fend for yourself in the middle of nowhere. Supplies were already beginning to run low, and no cars had passed in the last two days. 

You were stranded.

And this time, you were completely alone.

And as the sun slowly began to sink below the horizon, so too did your hopes of rescue.

* * * *

_ You deserve this. _

**_Murderer._ **

* * * *

The desert was dark at night.

It was even darker when you were alone.

You curled up closer to the fire, staring melancholically at the single bubbling can of soup on the stove. Knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your legs, eyes gently resting shut. You drew in a deep breath of air, slowly exhaling as you heard sand crunching from behind you. 

“I should punch you,” you mused, still facing the fire. “I really should.” You kept your eyes closed, taking in another deep breath as the sand shifted beside you, a heavy mass settling down right next to you. “But I…I understand it. I understand you wanting to run.”

More silence, the quiet only punctuated by the gentle flickering of the flames. You kept your eyes closed, the back of your eyelids tinted red from the firelight. 

“I heard you,” Bucky whispered, his voice sounding from your left. “What you said.”

“Well, you definitely are a douchebag,” you chuckled, small smile tugging at your lips.

“After that,” he elaborated, voice so soft that you almost missed it. You blinked your eyes open, tilting your head to the side and glancing over at him. He was sitting cross legged on the ground, elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head forward. His hair fell in curtains around his face, eyes cast downwards as he stared at his hands clasped in his lap.

“I am, y’know,” you said quietly, canting your head further to the side, “I am sorry.” He sat up against the car, tilting his head back and staring up at the starry night sky. 

The silence stretched taut like a rubber band, tense and unbelievably awkward. “Why? Why would you be sorry for what...” he trailed off, unable to continue.

“Listen,” you spun around, facing him even as he looked away, “I don’t know much about what’s happening here, like at all. But I like to think that I’m a good judge of character, and anyone with common sense—such as myself—can see—“

“You fought me with a baseball bat,” he deadpanned.

“ _ Such as myself, _ ” you fixed him with a look, “can see that all that shit—“ you waved your hand in a random, all encompassing gesture. “—wasn’t you.”

He glanced up at you, gaze doubtful and unsure.

“You ever heard of MKUltra?” You asked. “ It was a top secret mind control program. A really shitty one, to be honest.” You chuckled darkly, “they pretty much gave people a crap ton of drugs and hoped for the best.”

He listened attentively, silently urging you to continue.

“Predictably, it didn’t work. LSD would just fuck with their heads, not control them.” You rested your chin on your knees, hugging them closer to your chest. “But just because that program wasn’t successful—” you looked at him meaningfully. “—doesn’t mean there wasn’t another.”

More silence. Whether it was good or bad, you didn’t know. 

“I don’t know exactly what happened to you,” you sighed, staring off into the flames. “But I do know this,” you looked back at him, eyes blazing like burning coals. “You would  _ never  _ do that of your own free will.  _ Ever _ .”

You stood to your feet, pacing back and forth as you began your impassioned speech.

“Jesus Christ _ ,  _ even a  _ mention  _ of them made you panic. No man should have to endure that,” you threw your arms up in the air, continuing to walk in a tight circle as you ranted. “You can’t remember anything, you spout propaganda like a faucet, you’re practically  _ programmed  _ at times.” You turned to him and huffed, placing your hands on your hips, “I think brainwashing is a major contender for what’s been done to you.”

“I’ve only known you for...how long?” You counted in your head, “ _four fucking_ _days,_ and I already want to dropkick those Hydra fuckwits into the next century. If I ever see one of those bastards, I’ll punch them in the dick just for you.” You took a deep, composing breath and continued. “You’re not who you were four days ago, you’re not what they forced you to be.”

He looked up at you in thinly veiled awe, trying and failing to keep his eyes from watering.

“You...you like off brand ravioli and The Beatles. You hate the cold and have the strangest sense of humor I’ve ever seen.” You chuckled to yourself, your mood quickly turning somber. “I said some really shitty stuff to you, and looking back on it now,” you let your shoulders fall forward. “God, I’m so sorry.” You brought your hands up to your face and covered your eyes, taking a shaky breath in an effort to regain your composure.

“...I’m sorry too,” Bucky whispered, raking a hand through his hair. “I never should’ve left you here, I shouldn’t have kidnapped you in the first place. There’s no excuse for it, it was all me.” He looked up and gave you a self deprecating smile, quickly bowing his head and averting his gaze.

You sat down directly in front of him, leaning forward and catching his eye. “If I ran, would you stop me?”

He took in a breath and slumped forward, “no.”

“If I decided to leave you behind, would you stop me?”

“No.”

“Bam, not kidnapped,” you grinned and jokingly shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t make the rules.”

“But—“

“Nope,” you interrupted him with a clap of your hands, “not kidnapped. The same rule applies to you, you’re not—“ You steeled yourself for what you were about to stay. “—you’re not obligated to stay here.”

He gave you a stubborn look, jaw set determinedly. “I’m not leaving you alone unless you want me to.”

A small smile spread across your face, the grin fading away as something clicked in your head. “Why’d you even come back?” You whispered, glancing away and staring at the ground. “Hell, why’d you even  _ leave?” _

He pondered the question for a moment, looking up at the night sky and staring at the Little Dipper. “I...I don’t know.” He answered.

The lie was smooth as butter, but you knew what it was. You knew deep in your gut that he wasn’t telling you the truth. You sighed, planting your palms on the ground and leaning back against them. “Fine, don’t tell me.” You sighed exasperatedly, “I’m going to bed, the soup’s yours if you want it.” 

You slid into the passenger's seat, tilting the seat back and closing your eyes, willing yourself to fall asleep.

“I was afraid,” he said quietly, so quietly that you hadn’t heard it at first.

“What?” You opened your eyes and sat up, surprised to see him standing at the window.

“I was afraid,” he repeated, louder this time. “Of what they’d do when they caught me, when they caught  _ you. _ ” He grit his teeth, fists clenched and shaking. “And I thought...I thought it was best to run and never look back.”

“But you did,” you said softly, glancing up at him from beneath your eyelashes.

“I am weak,” he answered bitterly. “I am weak and I looked back.” He swallowed tightly, exhaling sharply through his nose. “And the look on your face, it made me return.”

Silence. The quiet settling over the two of you like a blanket as you processed what he said.

“They won’t catch us,” you promised.

“They will.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed!


	7. Stranded: Day Four

You slept well, despite the circumstances. No nightmares, no paralysis; just a restful night's sleep.

Which was promptly ruined by Bucky waking you up at the ass-crack of dawn.

“I’m gonna make a run for it,” you bemoaned, tumbling out of the car as you blearily followed after him. “This is torture, literal torture. What’d you even wake me up for?”

He gave you a dry look, slowing to a stop and turning around to face you, arms crossed over his chest. “You need to learn how to defend yourself.”

“I have you,” you pointed out, gesturing to his fairly impressive musculature. “Isn’t that enough?”

“You won’t always,” he said somberly, a nihilistic crease furrowing his brow.

“Don’t say that,” you admonished, glaring at him without heat. “I don’t want to think about it.”

He gave you a small, sad smile, “but you have to.” He uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides, “you have to know how to fend for yourself.”

“Why does it matter, anyway?” You asked petulantly, even though you already (half) knew the answer.

“There are dangerous people out there,” he said solemnly, eyes haunted with painful memories. “People who will not hesitate to hurt you, maim you, _kill_ you. People who will torture you until you beg them to finish it.” You balked at his words, swallowing past the nervous lump in your throat.

_Danger danger danger._

He dialled back on the intimidation, eyes going soft. Like a rock turning into a slightly squishier rock. “I won’t always be there to protect you,” he admitted quietly. “Please, you need to learn how to fight.” He seemed desperate, practically begging you to let him teach you. “ _Please.”_

“Alright.” You agreed, “alright.” Something had changed between the two of you. Sharp edges going blunt, jagged ridges sanded down into nothingness. It was...nice. “So, uh, where do we start?”

“Punch me,” he said with complete seriousness, spreading his arms out wide and opening himself to attack.

“What,” you deadpanned. You’d expected some super secret assassin stuff, not...whatever this was. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t,” he promised, goading you on. “Hit me, as hard as you can.”

“If you insist,” you shrugged, winding up your arm and aiming a punch at his cheek. “Sorry about this—oof—!” 

Next thing you knew you were on the ground, back aching and wrists pinioned above your head. Bucky loomed over you triumphantly, knee pressed into your chest and pinning you down.

“Totally kicked your ass,” you groaned, lifting your head up before dropping it back down in exhaustion. 

Bucky raised an unimpressed brow and stepped back, releasing you from his hold. “Throw with your whole body, not just your arm,” he critiqued, offering you a hand up. “Lead with your leg and twist your hips, swing your upper body and snap your wrist.”

“That’s a lot to take in,” you said in bewilderment, accepting his outstretched hand and letting him pull you up. “Ready for round two—agh!”

And you were on the ground again, flipped onto your back and pinned down under Bucky’s weight. 

“Always be vigilant,” he advised, standing up and outstretching his hand towards you once more.

“Uh-uh-uh,” you tutted, rolling over and rising to your feet. “Not falling for that again.”

He chuckled lightly and retracted his hand, taking a few steps back and spreading out his arms. “Now go on, try again.” You bounced on your heels, shifting into a fighting stance and running through everything Bucky’d just taught you. 

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” you muttered under your breath, hyping yourself up. You lurched forward and threw a punch, twisting your hips and swinging your torso in tandem. Your fist smashed against his cheek, knocking his head to the side with a sharp _crack_ . “Yes! Let’s go!” You hollered, whooping in celebration. “I’m gonna punch _so_ many Nazis.”

Bucky touched his cheek, turning his head towards you and nodding approvingly. “You’re a fast learner,” he complimented.

“I try,” you grinned, shaking out your hand. “You okay?”

“Barely even hurt.”

“Ow, my feelings,” you gasped, daintily laying a hand over your heart. “You wound me.”

He half-snorted, half-chuckled. “Here,” he grabbed your arm and hooked it around his left. “Follow my lead.”

“Okay…” you said uncertainly, hesitantly letting him guide you. He opened his ribs to an attack and you quickly got the message, miming a hit to his side. “Is this some sort of secret move?”

“Kind of,” he answered vaguely. “Hold on.”

“What do you—oh okay!” He dragged you to the ground before you could react, positioning you so that you were halfway on top of him. “Oh, I get it now.”

“Use your legs,” he advised, “lift your hips.” You eagerly obeyed, pinning him to the ground in such a way that you could easily stay out of danger.

“Did I do it?”

“Yes, good job,” he commended, rising to his feet and outstretching his arms invitingly. “Now, show me it again.”

You stood to your feet, darting forward and wrapping your arm around his own. You threw a sharp jab at his ribs and used the advantage to throw him to the ground, positioning yourself so that you were pressing him into the sand. 

“Good,” he complimented, lifting his head up and nodding at you in acknowledgement.

“What exactly would I use this for?” You asked, still pinning him to the ground.

“To take down an opponent,” he explained. “And if it comes down to it, to kill them.”

_To kill them._

_To kill._

_Kill._

**_Kill._ **

“We’re done here,” you said sharply, releasing him and heading back to the car. Pushing down the memories that threatened to overflow.

_(Sprawled out on the ground, skull shattered like a smashed in pumpkin bleeding all over that—_

**—Hardly even recognizable. Bloated and rotting from days spent floating, still wearing that godforsaken—**

_—pretty white nightshirt completely stained red, with that unseeing—_

**—tutu ragged and soaked through a thousand times over, forever tainted with the acrid smell of—**

_—eye glazed over and dull, spiderweb patterns dancing across the sclera—_

— **chlorine bleached hair that pathetically framed her rounded face. Eyes closed and blind to the stars gently twinkling above.)**

A small frown marred Bucky’s face, his brows drawing together in subtle concern. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you answered snappily, obviously _not_ fine.

“You don’t seem—“

“Leave me alone,” you gritted out.

“You can’t just run away.”

“The hell I can’t,” you seethed. “I don’t have to do shit.” You ducked into the passenger's seat, slamming the door shut like an angry teen. You probably looked like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

A soft knock against the window called for your attention, but you ignored it. Stubbornly staring forward with your arms crossed over your chest.

“You think you can control everything.” Bucky said amusedly, his voice muffled from outside the door. “But you can’t.”

“Excuse me?” You sputtered, stepping out of the car to face him. His words slowly sank in, the bluntness with which he said them breaking right through your walls. You blinked, blinked, and blinked again; a few simple words having just unraveled your psyche.

“That’s what you want, control,” he observed, tilting his head to the side appraisingly. Looking you up and down as if he were assessing you.

You took a moment to respond, one moment too long. “Are you kidding me with this psychoanalyst shit?”

He ignored you. “You think that you can fight them off? Prove it.” He shifted back into a fighting stance, his taunting words doing little to brighten your mood.

“Fine,” you spat, gritting your teeth until your jaw ached. “ _Fine.”_

You lunged forward and threw a sharp punch to his jaw, putting all of your emotions into the move. He dodged easily, stepping aside and jabbing you in the ribs. “Elbows in. Aim for the nose, chin, throat, kidneys, or solar plexus.”

“What the fuck is a solar plexus,” you growled, begrudgingly aiming a punch at his nose.

“This,” he said matter of factly, jabbing right beneath your sternum.

“ _Shit,”_ you gasped for breath, the air having been knocked right out of you. “Son of a _bitch.”_

“Be vigilant,” he reminded you, “watch your stance. Feet planted, knees bent.”

You grumbled under your breath, correcting your stance and dodging a few of his hits. You hooked your arm around his own, jabbed him in the side, and threw him to the ground. Draping yourself over him and pinning him to the floor, heart singing with triumph.

You knew that he’d let you win, knew that he’d been going easy on you.

But it was a victory nonetheless.

“I’m not killing anyone,” you swore, voice raw and emotional. “ _I’m not_.”

**_Never again._ **

* * * *

Things were tense, very tense. You’d thought that those times were over, the times where the two of you were always at each other's throats.

Apparently not.

Without the car to tend to, Bucky was constantly on edge. Pacing in tight circles, metal arm whirring as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was seconds away from snapping, and that was something you _never_ wanted to see again.

But even though the two of you were currently at odds, there was still a way that you could establish a truce.

“Music?”

Bucky stopped his pacing, looking thoughtfully off into the distance. “...yeah,” he nodded slightly, “yeah.”

“You can pick,” you suggested, looking up at him from where you sat on the ground. “The CDs are in the glove compartment, labeled and everything.”

That seemed to do the trick.

With your permission, he slid into the passenger's seat and rummaged through the glove compartment, choosing a random disc from the stack and holding it out to you. “Is this one okay?” You squinted, leaning forward in order to read what was scribbled on the disc. It was a child’s handwriting, and right below it was a sentence written neatly in cursive.

_Have fun in coolege!!! Dont forget me!_

**Helped her make this. We’ll miss you, Scooby. 2003**

“Be careful with that,” you said, a slight waver to your voice. “There’s only one.” 

With great care, he slid the disc into the slot and hit play. The upbeat vocals instantly sending you back in time, nostalgia turning your vision a rosy gold.

_You have so many relationships in this life_

_Only one or two will last_

_You're going through all the pain and strife_

_Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast_

_Oh yeah_

_And they're gone so fast, yeah-e-yeah ohhh_

“This is...different,” he commented, settling back as he let the music wash over him.

“MMMBop, by Hanson,” you explained. “Crazy popular pop song.” You smiled at him, “you haven’t heard any pop yet, so that’s why it’s so strange.”

_So hold on the ones who really care_

_In the end they'll be the only ones there_

_And when you get old and start losing your hair_

_Can you tell me who will still care-are-are_

_Can you tell me who will still care_

_Ohh ohhh_

_Okay yeah_

“Do you—“

“Shush,” you silenced him. “You’re gonna miss the best part.”

_Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

_Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

“That’s the best part?” He said disbelievingly, catching your eye and raising a questioning brow.

“Oh, absolutely,” you grinned, standing up and walking over to him. Ducking your head so that you could look him in the eye.

“But it’s just noise…”

“That’s what makes it fun!”

_Said oh yeah_

_In an mmm bop they're gone_

_Yeah heah!_

_Yeah-e-yeah_

“What even is an ‘mmmbop?’” He asked, looking up at you in confusion.

“I think it’s supposed to mean ‘time,’ or something,” you shrugged noncommittally. “I just like the way it sounds.”

“Huh,” he hummed. “I don’t think I like this song…” he said almost guiltily, glancing over at you with a sheepish expression on his face.

“Well, it’s my sister's mixtape,” you explained, demeanor suddenly softening. A dreamy smile pulling around your lips, “god, she loved this song.”

He was quiet, guilt written plainly all over his face.

“Don’t worry,” you turned to him and grinned, “I hate it too.” 

He looked up at you in surprise, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he saw your own. Even though he didn’t like the song, it was obvious that the music was calming to him. His nervous energy had all but faded away, the lyrics chasing away all the dark thoughts in his head.

Or maybe you were just projecting.

You tended to do that a lot.

Either way, music was his way of coping. Of silencing the voices that wailed and screeched inside his head. Forgetting the trials and tribulations of everyday life, surrendering to the soft swells of the music.

Projecting, again.

It was really becoming a problem.

_Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

_Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du, ee-yeah_

“Hey Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

Your eyes twinkled mysteriously, a sly smirk upturning your lips. Bucky saw the look on your face and froze, going pale as a ghost. “Don’t you dare,” he whisper-yelled. “ _Don’t you dare.”_

You grinned mischievously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you crooned, innocently batting your eyelashes at him.

_Can you tell me? Oh_

_No, you can't 'cause you don't know_

_Can you tell me? Oh yeah_

_You say you can but you don't know_

_Can you tell me ohh_

_(Which flower's going to grow?)_

_No, you can't 'cause you don't know_

_Can you tell me_

_(If it's going to be a daisy or a rose?)_

_You say you can but you don't knowwww_

_Can you tell me ohh_

_(Which flower's going to grow?)_

_No, you can't 'cause you don't know_

_Can you tell me?_

_You say you can but you don't know-wah-hoe_

_Say you can but you don't know_

_You don't know-hoe_

_Don't know-hoe-hoe-oh_

“Don’t you dare start singing or I swear I’ll—”

And so, with Bucky’s encouragement, you sang.

_“Mmm bop_

_Du bop_

_Du bop_

_Du, yeah-e-yeah_

_Mmm bop ohh yeah_

_Du bop_

_Du bop_

_Du, oh ohh”_

“Y/N, please.”

_“Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

_Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du, erghhh”_

“Y/N, I’m begging you to stop.”

_“Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, oh ohhhh_

_Mmm bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du bop, ba du dop_

_Ba du, ohh yeah-e-yeah”_

“Why do I even bother,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“You know you love it,” you sing-songed.

“I don’t even like it, let alone _love_ it,” he scoffed, glowering as he caught sight of your shit-eating grin. 

“Lying isn’t a good look on you, Barnes.”

“Shut up.”

_Can you tell me? Ohhhh_

_No, you can't 'cause you don't know_

_Can you tell me? Oh yeah_

_You say you can but you don't knowwwwww_

_You say you can but you don't know_

_Nooo_

“Wanna listen to it again?”

“No _.”_

 _“_ Dang it.”

* * * *

_“Mmm bop, ba duba dop ba du bop...”_

_“_...”

_“...ba duba dop ba du bop, ba duba dop ba du, oh ohhhh…_

“Bucky, are you singing?”

“...no…”

“Whatever you say.”

“...”

“...”

“...it’s catchy…”

* * * *

“It’s like Ms. Oasis’ history class all over again,” you griped, inattentively skimming over pages of blocky text. “I’m having flashbacks.” 

Bucky gingerly turned the pages of his own book, eyes hungrily skating over the paper. You weren’t too eager for him to read the biographies again, especially with what had happened the last time. But it was late in the day and you had nothing better to do, so might as well bring up some painful memories.

“Nice jacket,” you commented, flipping your book towards him and pointing out a picture. It was an old photo of him and Captain Rogers, colorless and grainy. He was smiling (shocker) and laughing at something Rogers had said, hand clasped over the other’s shoulder. “Very fashionable.”

Bucky glanced at the photo, face twisted into an expression you couldn’t read. “It’s blue.”

“Hm?” You intoned, turning the book so that it was facing you once again.

“The jacket, it’s blue,” he explained. “Almost got my head blown off because of it.”

“The things we do for fashion,” you sighed, snapping the book closed. “Okay, I have a question for you. And feel free to tell me to fuck off.” He looked at you and raised a brow, silently granting you permission to continue. “Do you...do you actually remember anything?” He stared down at his book, lips pressed together in a tight line. “You don’t have to answer,” you backtracked, “I was just wondering.”

“I don’t…I think so,” he said uncertainly. “It’s all a jumble, I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not.”

“Well, what do you remember? Only the good stuff,” you finished, noticing the haunted expression on his face.

“I remember…” he began, tilting his head back and drawing his brows together, “I remember Steve, bits and pieces. Remember dancing,” a small smile flitted across his face, quickly shifting into a frown, “remember falling.”

You shifted closer, reaching out towards him only to let your arm drop to your side. “Hey, don’t push it,” you smiled warmly, “it’ll all come back in time.”

He let the book fall shut, running his hand over the cover as if he could absorb the contents within. “It won’t,” he said somberly, “they made sure of it.”

You took the book out of his hands, dusting off the cover and gently setting it down on the ground. “You’re stronger than them,” you fixed him with a determined look, “whatever they’ve done to you, you can break through it. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.”

He looked at you emotionally, eyes watery with unshed tears that he quickly blinked away.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you are stronger than you know.”

_Stronger than anyone._

* * * *

You’d never seen so many stars.

The sky was full of them, like diamonds scattered across a blanket of black silk. Nebulous clouds of gases swirled across the sky in a trail of bright colors, constellations twinkling and shifting like living beings.

She would’ve loved this.

You lay back on the roof of your car—like the protagonist of some cheesy rom-com—staring up at the glittering stars reflectively. The night was young and the breeze was warm, and for the first time in a long while you felt content.

“Would you look at that,” you whispered to yourself in awe. “Bucky! Come look!” He stepped out of the car, following your gaze and letting out a small gasp as he saw what you were eyeing. “Shooting star, make a wish!” 

(“ _Lookit that!”_

_“It’s a shooting star, Scrappy-Doo. Make a wish!”)_

A moment passed and the gleaming trail of the comet blinked out of view, leaving nothing behind but subtle wisps of light. You turned towards him and grinned, sitting up and patting the space beside you, “y’know what I wished for?”

_(“What’d you wish for, Scoob?”_

_“New art supplies.”_

_“I wished-ed for a pony!”_

_“That’s ridiculous.”_

_“Nuh-uh!”_

_“Yuh-huh.”)_

“Aren’t you not supposed to tell?” He asked, hopping up onto the roof and settling down beside you.

 _(“...wanna know what I_ really _wished for?”_

_“...”_

_“For mommy to love us.”_

_“Me too, pumpkin.”)_

“I’m rebellious like that,” you smirked, leaning close to whisper in his ear, “I wished for a shower.” He snorted and pushed you away, laughing harder as you let out an indignant squawk. “What?! It’s been five days, I stink!”

He shook his head and leaned back, gazing up at the sky in wonder. Starlight reflected off his face almost ethereally, eyes sparkling with childlike awe.

“See right there,” you pointed up to one of the constellations, “that’s Hercules.” He blinked in astonishment, eyes moving from your finger to the constellation glimmering above. “Over here’s Ursa Major,” you pointed to another, “and my favorite, the Little Dipper,” you pointed to the simple collection of stars, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

His lips parted in amazement, eyes darting from one constellation to the next. “Wow,” he breathed, laying himself down on the roof. You lay down beside him, arm brushing against his own as you settled in.

“Wow is right,” you whispered, just taking it all in. San Francisco didn’t have stars—the night sky bleached with light and smog—and seeing them again was like visiting an old friend. You let your eyes fall shut, letting the rumble of the motor lull you to sleep.

Wait…motor?

_Motor!_

“Hey!” You leapt off of the roof and stumbled onto the road, waving your arms and shouting. “Over here! Help!”

“What are you doing?” Bucky hissed, sliding off the roof and jogging over to you. “What if it’s...them?”

You stared giddily at the Jeep barreling down the road, the headlights burning like shooting stars in the darkness. 

_Rescue._

“I doubt it. And if they are, we can handle it.” 

He seemed doubtful, but he joined in nonetheless. “We need some help!” He yelled, waving his right hand and pointing exaggeratedly to your car. “Please!”

The car didn’t slow. In fact, it seemed to pick up speed, careening towards you without any sign of stopping. 

“Watch out!” You shouted, whether to the driver or Bucky, you weren’t sure. You squeezed your eyes shut, frozen still like a _marble statue_ as the car prepared to _shatter you—_

“Y/N!” Bucky shouted, tackling you to the ground just before the car hit. His chest pressed into your back as he shielded you from...from... 

Were those empty beer cans?

No, they weren’t.

Some of them were full.

The sudden screeching of brakes assaulted your senses, and you shivered as you heard the uproarious cackling of the drivers. The Jeep was filled with drunk college kids, the top rolled back as garish pop music streamed from the speakers. “Look at these crazy druggies!” One of the kids crowed, taking a long swig from a can before chucking it at the two of you. “Fucking freaks, waving us down. Get a job!”

Bucky growled, rising to his feet and pulling you up with him. He kept his back towards the kids, keeping you shielded and hidden from view.

“Y’all smell like shit!” One of the girls taunted, her friends tittering as they laughed at her remark. “Do ya even know what a shower is?”

“Betcha they didn’t even graduate high school!”

“Elementary!”

“Preschool!” They chittered like a flock of bats at their mediocre joke, patting themselves on the back and egging each other on.

“Leave us alone,” Bucky warned lowly, and you were immediately thankful that he’d hidden his prosthetic. Because if he hadn’t, the kids would’ve shat their pants.

“Whatchu gonna do?” The brawny guy at the wheel snorted, “fucking waste of space.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you roared, whirling around in Bucky’s arms to face them. “Why don’t you shove a bottle up your ass, you fucking washed up high school quarterback.”

The guy sneered and chucked a broken bottle right at your face, his friends cheering him on as he did so. Despite the odds, it hit; tearing a shallow gash right above your right eyebrow. 

“Motherfucker!” You screeched, blood streaming into your eye. Bucky turned his head and caught sight of your bloodied face, eyes going cold as he watched the blood pour from your wound.

“Tell your psycho girlfriend to shut her goddamn mouth!” The bottle-thrower bellowed, vein throbbing at his forehead. “Fucking bitch!” He pressed his foot to the gas pedal, gunning off down the road before you could scream back.

“Well, fuck you too!” You yelled, flipping off the tail end of his car. You felt empty, gutted like a fish. The first car you’d seen in ages and it was filled with sadistic assholes. 

No rescue, no supplies, no hope.

“Your eye,” Bucky said worriedly, grabbing you by the chin and angling your head so that he could get a better look. “It needs stitches.”

“Fuck,” you breathed, chest seizing up in dull panic. “That’s gonna hurt.”

He gave you a pitying look, tilting your head back further so the blood trickled away from your eye. “Stay here, I’ll get the kit,” he gave you a comforting pat on the shoulder and walked over to the car, rummaging through the trunk and pulling out the emergency med kit.

“Hercules,” you whispered to yourself, seeking out the constellation in question, calming yourself with the familiar star pattern. “Ursa Major, Ursa Minor.” You blinked, right eyelid temporarily glued shut by the tacky buildup of blood. “Big Dipper, Little Dipper.”

Bucky lay a hand on your shoulder and pushed you to the ground, kneeling down beside you. You went willingly, neck craning backwards as you stared up at the starry night sky. 

“Look forward,” he ordered, locking his metal hand around your jaw as he held your head still. You swallowed nervously, the fading bruises around your neck twanging painfully in remembrance. “Now stay still,” he swiped at the cut with an alcohol wipe, the sharp sting making you hiss between your teeth. He muttered a quick apology, threading the needle and plunging the tip in without any preamble.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whispered to yourself, nails biting into your palm as you clenched your fists.

“Almost there,” Bucky hummed, tugging the needle through your skin.

“Shit,” you groaned, drawing out the ‘t’ as he drew the two flaps of skin together. “Is it done?”

“Yes,” he affirmed, wiping down the sutures and taping a piece of medical gauze over it.

“Thank you,” you said gratefully, “thank you, for all of it.” It was all too much, and the hopelessness closed around your heart like a vice. Squeezing and squeezing until it popped like a balloon. The tears flowed ceaselessly, everything that you’d boxed up inside suddenly flooding out.

Mimi.

The kidnapping.

Hydra.

_Bucky._

The man in question was staring at you with concern, unsure what to do as you broke down right in front of him. You were the angry one, he was the depressed, angsty one. That was your dynamic. 

And now it’d been turned on its head.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your eyelids like a scared child. Tears fell unbidden from your eyes, washing away the last bits of crusted blood as they streamed down your face. A stuttered sob tumbled from your lips as you felt arms envelop you, one warm and one cold, but both unbelievably soft.

You cried yourself to sleep in Bucky’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	8. Stranded: Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’ve decided to make a [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2CADriBUl2VZMIox4CZ32F?si=smOPwCX8SU6X2CYuImNlwA) for all of the songs that have/will show up in this story! It also has songs that I like, or that I think fit the characters/plot. So please go check it out! 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! :D

_“Can you see it?”_

_You blinked your eyes open, marveling at the endless sea of stars laid out before you. Constellations twisting and shifting as if they were alive, swirling and sparking as they danced across the sky._

_“That one’s my favorite.” You glanced upwards, mouth gaping open as the Little Dipper flared like a supernova, flooding the sky with piercing white light. “Which one do you like?”_

_You turned towards the source of the voice, heart aching as you saw who it was._

_“The Little Dipper,” you whispered, a sad smile spreading across your face._

_“No, silly!” the little girl pouted, her rounded face scrunched up in annoyance, “_ I’m _the Little Dipper, you’re the Big Dipper!”_

_“How could I forget?” You said shakily, tears welling up in your eyes as you saw her beloved pink tutu; the too big band t-shirt that hung off of her boney shoulders. Her hair was tied up in pigtails, glittery barrettes clipped just above her frizzy bangs._

_“I’m turning six today, Scoob,” she said, a hopeful spark shining in her eyes, “are you gonna come home for my party? There’s ice cream cake, your favorite!”_

_(Say yes say yes, oh god say yes—)_

_“I can’t,” you answered, mouth moving of its own accord, “college stuff, y’know? Maybe next time, I promise.”_

_“Oh,” she whispered, deflating like a popped balloon, “but Daddy can't come either! It’s just Mommy and her gross friend Chad.”_

_(Say yes say yes_ **_please!_ ** _)_

_“Sorry, Scrappy. I’ll send you a card, and a new mixtape, too!”_

_“Yay!” She cheered, visibly perking up, “love ya, Y/N!”_

_“Love you too, Scrapadoodle.”_

_The scene began to warp and shift, like staring into a rippling lake. The acrid scent of chlorine wafted into your nose, the stars fading away and turning into miles and miles of endless water. You floated aimlessly, listlessly, staring up at the surface as you slowly sank to the bottom._

_Arms wrapped around your middle in a deathly embrace, flesh rotting and peeling away to reveal white bones underneath. Teeth brushed against your ear, milky white and polished like the skull they were attached to. You screamed wordlessly, bubbles streaming from your mouth as you thrashed and fought. And you knew, deep within your soul, that the decaying corpse was Mimi’s._

**_“You deserve this_ ** _,” someone said, a thousand voices smashed into one. It was as if they projected the words right into your skull, beating them into the soft tissue of your brain. “_ **_You deserve this and more.”_ **

_(Please! I didn’t know—)_

_“_ **_You knew, you just didn’t care,”_ ** _the voice crooned, snaking through your body and constricting around your heart. Squeezing until it felt like it was about to pop “_ **_Or were you too high to even notice?”_ **

_(I didn’t think that would happen, I thought she’d be_ **_safe._ ** _)_

 _“_ **_But you were wrong, again.”_ **

_(It was out of my control!)_

**_“Ah, the word of the day,”_ ** _the voice mused, speaking in Bucky’s voice. “_ **You think you can control everything, but you can’t.”**

_(I—)_

_“_ **_You’ve spent your whole life chasing after control, despising the feeling of helplessness, and where has that brought you?”_ **

_(...)_

**_“The exact situation you’ve been avoiding since 2004.”_ **

_(Don’t.)_

**_“Someone else’s life in your hands, and you fail them once again.”_ **

_(_ Don’t _.)_

 _“_ **_How would he react, if he knew that you killed your own—“_ **

_“SHUT UP!” You roared, grabbing the arm locked around your waist and_ snapping _it in half. The entity howled, letting you go as if it’d been burned. You whirled around and kicked the_ thing _in its face, gagging as you felt your foot break through like it was a rotted pumpkin._

**_“Killer.”_ **

_“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” You chanted, kicking off from the bottom of the pool and rocketing towards the surface. You reached up, fingers just barely breaking through to safety, when you suddenly sank back down to the bottom. The sun shimmering teasingly out of reach, taunting your failure._

_You screamed in raw frustration, panic sparking within you as you realized what was happening._

_“No, fuck!” You screamed, staring down in horror as your flesh slowly turned to stone, marble creeping up your legs and spreading across your chest. “No no no!”_

_You swayed and shook, trying desperately to break away the stone that had hardened your skin. Flailing your arms as you tried fruitlessly to paddle towards the surface. But it was of no use, and soon enough, you were completely frozen. A marble statue stuck at the bottom of the pool._

_Alone._

_(Please help me please help me please—)_

_(Bucky?)_

_You watched in hopeful confusion as he swam towards you, hair fanning out in a halo as he hooked his arms around your waist and carried you up to the surface. Your head rose above the water and you took in a gasping breath, laughing with hysterical glee as you realized that you were no longer made of stone._

_“Thank you—“_

_“Wake up.”_

And you did.

* * * *

“Thanks, by the way,” you said quietly, reaching your hand into a box of Cocoa Puffs and shoving a handful into your mouth, “for last night, and this morning.” 

Your nightmare was still fresh on your mind. And even though it had ended on a much happier note, it still haunted you. If Bucky hadn’t woken you up when he did, well, who knew what kind of twisted shit your subconscious would’ve come up with next.

“No problem,” he smiled softly, swiping the box out of your hands and stealing a heaping handful. Grinning widely as he noticed your offended expression.

“I take it all back,” you griped, making grabby-hands for the crushed box, “gimme back my cereal.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he mused, tilting his head back and pouring the rest of the chocolatey goodness into his mouth.

You gasped in exaggerated horror, “no! The rationing! You’ve ruined it!” You dove forward and snatched the box out of his hands, whining in disappointment as you realized that it was empty. “My Cocoa Puffs! No!” The two of you shared a laugh, forgetting all of your troubles for just a moment. One precious, amazing moment.

But all moments must come to an end, even the good ones.

Your grin slowly faded, mood souring as you reflected on what had happened the day before. The college kids that had swooped in and ruined everything, the breakdown, the hug. God, the _hug._ It was the first time that either of you had _actually_ touched each other. And curse your pathetic touch starved soul, you wanted to do it again. 

It was just so _…nice_ . No ulterior motive, no underlying hate; just two people finding comfort in each other. When was the last time you’d had something like that? ( _Almost seven years ago.)_

It’s not like it mattered anyway, he wouldn’t do it again.

But why did that _upset_ you so much?

Maybe it is because you were even more isolated than before. Hope had arrived and promptly kicked you in the nuts, beating you down and rubbing your face in the dirt. It didn’t help that there was a ring of truth to the kid’s words, their insults cutting deeper than they could ever imagine.

_“Crazy druggies!”_

_“Betcha they didn’t even graduate high school!”_

_“Waste of space!”_

A fresh wave of hopelessness settled over you like smog, blocking out any sliver of light. You unconsciously touched the gauze on your forehead, wincing slightly as your wound twinged in pain.

“Don’t touch,” Bucky lectured, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away from your brow. His eyes softened as he noticed your lost expression, conflicted on whether or not he should comfort you.

You sniffled quietly, refusing to cry in front of him _again._ You turned away and looked over your campsite, anger rising in your chest as you saw all of the cans and bottles scattered across the sand.

“Couldn’t have thrown an unopened one, huh?” You muttered, tucking the box beneath your arm and circling the campsite, picking up every last piece of litter, “god, I need a drink.”

“Let me help,” he offered, taking the trash out of your hands and dumping it into a plastic bag, throwing it all into the trunk.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“Thanks, again,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Be safe at home,” he said quietly, a guilty look weighing on his face as he turned away.

“Didn’t we have this conversation a few days ago?” You objected. He didn’t answer, refusing to meet your eye. “Hey,” you grabbed his hand and forced him to make eye contact, “didn’t we establish that it wasn’t your fault? That I don’t blame you for anything?

“You’re hurt because of me,” he whispered, hands trembling as he remembered the blood staining his fingers, “I should’ve protected you.”

“Uh, you did?” You protested, “I distinctly remember you _shielding_ me with your body. It was a lucky hit, nothing more, nothing less.”

“But—“

“No buts,” you said somberly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “if anything, I should apologize to you. Considering how I almost got you run over by a car.”

“That wasn’t your…” he trailed off, realizing exactly what he was saying.

You nodded approvingly, “now you’re getting it. Now, where’re the other cereals? I call dibs on Lucky Charms.”

“What’re Lucky Charms?”

“Oh boy, do I have a treat for _you.”_

* * * *

“So, what d’you think?”

“Why is it so _sweet?”_

“‘Cause they’re marshmallows, Buck. That’s the whole point.”

“But you’re wasting the rest of the cereal.”

“You’re not _supposed_ to eat the rest of it, just the marshmallows.”

“That’s wasteful.”

“Duh.”

“...”

“...”

“...pass me a handful.”

* * * *

The sun slowly dipped below the horizon, the sky dappled with watercolor blues and blacks. You sat by the grill, mouth watering as clam chowder broiled on the stovetop. Bucky sat in the car, fiddling absentmindedly with the radio as he waited for the soup to finish.

“Music?” He offered. Though he didn’t need to ask, the answer would always be yes.

“Go ahead,” you called back, poking the cans with a spork, “you can pick.”

A slight rustle, the sharp click of discs knocking together, and the swish of a CD sliding into the slot. Your ears perked up as you heard the music start, laughter bubbling up your throat as you realized just what was playing.

_Hi! Hi! We're your weather girls_

_(Uh huh)_

_And have we got news for you!_

_You better listen_

_Get ready all you lonely girls_

_And leave those umbrellas at home_

_Alright_

“Bucky,” you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand, “did you put in my sister’s disc again?”

“...maybe…” he said guiltily, poking his head out of the driver's seat and grinning sheepishly.

You shook your head, snorting with laughter, “of _course_ you pick this song.”

“What? What did I do?”

_Humidity is rising (Mm rising), barometer's getting low (How low, girl?)_

_According to all sources (What sources now?)_

_The street's the place to go (You better hurry up)_

_'Cause tonight for the first time_

_Just about half-past ten_

_For the first time in history_

_It's gonna start raining men_

“ _Oh_ ,” he said in realization, “I can change it, if you want.”

“No!” You objected, awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck, “I...I like this song. It’s one of my guilty pleasures.”

“Huh?”

“This disc is all of my guilty pleasure songs, the songs I never want to admit to liking,” you explained, “me and my sister would listen to them together.”

He didn’t bring up the past tense, and the two of you continued listening. A little more somber than before.

_It's raining men! Hallelujah!_

_It's raining men! Amen!_

_I'm gonna go out to run and let myself get_

_Absolutely soaking wet!_

_It's raining men! Hallelujah!_

_It's raining men! Every specimen!_

_Tall, blonde, dark and lean_

_Rough and tough and strong and mean_

“Hey, that last line describes you,” you joked.

“You think I’m...that?” He asked, a light blush dusting his cheeks. Or maybe that was just the low lighting.

“Well, yeah. Not mean!” You corrected, reassuring him before he could get the wrong idea, “but you do have a...I dunno…’bad boy’ vibe.”

“Bad boy vibe,” he deadpanned, raising a brow.

“I’m not wrong!” You objected, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “you seem like the kinda guy who’d wear a leather jacket and ride a motorcycle.”

“And you find that...attractive?”

“What girl wouldn’t?” Now it was your turn to blush.

Or maybe it was just the lighting.

_God bless Mother Nature, she's a single woman too_

_She took off to heaven and she did what she had to do_

_She taught every angel_

_She rearranged the sky_

_So that each and every woman could find her perfect guy_

“I know that look in your eyes,” Bucky said warningly, fixing you with a playful glare, “don’t you dare start singing.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, old man!” You booed, childishly sticking out your tongue. “ _It's raining men! Hallelujah! It's raining men! Amen! It's raining men! Hallelujah! It's raining men! Amen!”_

“Y/N, stop singing,” Bucky interrupted, pausing the music and popping out the disc.

“Hey, don’t tell—“

“Y/N, seriously,” Bucky said, his tone of voice making you obey immediately, “look.”

He pointed over your shoulder, directing your gaze towards the delivery truck bumbling down the road. Your throat closed up, stitches pulsing in time with your heartbeat as fear coursed through your veins.

“What do we do?” You asked breathlessly, a pit of dread churning in your stomach.

“We try again,” he said determinedly, stepping out of the car and jogging out onto the road. You hesitantly followed after him, jumping and waving in an attempt to draw the drivers attention.

“Help!” You called, pointing towards your car, “we need help!”

The truck drove up right next to you, slowing to a stop and letting out a hearty puff of exhaust. The truck was painted in bright, neon colors; the word ‘MARVEL’ printed on the side in large print. The window rolled down, revealing a friendly looking old man with snow white hair. A pair of beige tinted glasses were perched on his nose, a lovingly manicured moustache tickling his lip.

“Hey there!” The man greeted, his fatherly voice putting you at ease, “how can I help ya?”

You smiled politely, “our car broke down and we were wondering if we could hitch a ride to the nearest town? If it’s no trouble for you, of course.”

The man grinned, “I was just heading to the next town over to deliver some comics, ‘course you can come.” You let out a sigh of relief, but the man continued, “however, there’s only enough space for one in the truck. So you and your husband are gonna have to choose who stays and who goes.”

“Oh, he’s not—“

“She’ll go,” Bucky interrupted, ignoring your confused look, “I can wait with the car.”

The man beamed, “don’t worry, young lady. There’s a tow truck in town that’ll pick your husband up in a jiffy.”

You turned to Bucky and hissed, “what do you mean ‘she’ll go?’”

He whispered back, “you’re less recognizable, it’ll be safer for the both of us.” He gave you a small, reassuring smile. Patting you on the back and slipping a fat wad of cash into your pocket.

Your stomach plummeted to your feet. He was right, but that didn’t mean you had to like it.

“Well, come on then!” the driver called, waving you over, “hop on board!”

“See you soon,” you promised Bucky, giving him a beaming smile before sliding into the passenger's seat. The interior of the truck was cozy, with carpeting upholstery and a dashboard riddled with bobble heads. A lot of the characters you didn’t recognize—a red and gold robot, a hulking green monster, a caped man wielding a hammer, a blue and red spider person, and many more that you couldn’t even begin to count—but you could recognize the stars and stripes of Captain America any day.

“So, you’re a Captain America fan, huh?” You inquired, forcing down laughter as you realized the irony of the situation.

“Oh, a friend gave that to me,” the old man explained, “the rest are mine.” He winked at you for no conceivable reason, starting up the car and barreling down the road. “So, young lady, what’s your name?”

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you answered, looking back out the window as Bucky became smaller and smaller, something unrecognizable churning in your stomach as you grew further apart.

“Y/N Y/L/N, that’s a beautiful name. You know, that reminds me of a issue of Spider-Man that I did and—“

“Stop the car!” You shouted, inspiration dawning on you as if a lightbulb had been switched on. “Stop the car!”

The man obediently hit the breaks, the truck loudly screeching to a halt as the bobbleheads bounced energetically. You undid your seatbelt and jumped out of the door, sprinting down the road and whooping in excitement.

Back to Bucky.

“What are you doing?” He said as you came closer, “you’re supposed to be—”

You dove forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him in for a bruising hug and spinning around in a circle. He balked for a moment, tentatively returning the embrace and pulling you close to his chest.

It was as nice as you remembered.

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, mumbling incomprehensibly before dancing away.

“W-what?” He stuttered, dazed from the affection.

“Don’t break my discs while I’m gone!” You laughed, practically skipping back to the truck. “Stay safe!” You shouted, waving to him one more time before sliding back into the passenger's seat.

“Ah, young love,” the old man sighed, starting the car and pressing his foot to the gas, “make sure to cherish it, Y/N. Not many get love like you and your husband’s.”

“He’s not my husband,” you objected, watching absentmindedly as the bobbleheads danced and bobbed. The man raised a disbelieving eyebrow, looking back to the road and squinting as the sun glared into his eyes. The two of you drove in silence, classical music playing on the radio as the sky turned an inky black.

You smacked your palm to your forehead, cringing at your own stupidity, “I’m so sorry, I forgot to ask for your name?”

The old man turned to you and smiled, eyes crinkling with genuine merriment, “Stan Lee, we have a lot to talk about, Y/N.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Stan Lee
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	9. Care To Join?

And that was the exact moment you realized that you were alone—at  _ night _ —with a strange man.

But he was...different. He had a sort of aura about him that was comforting, that spoke of wisdom and geneality. You knew that you could trust him; and in a way, you already did.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you,” Stan said, giving you a comforting smile.

“You have no idea,” you snorted, slouching down in your seat and tilting your head back. You let the vibrations of the truck run through you, the haunting notes of Bach’s greatest dancing through the air. It was oddly soothing, the loud shifting and clattering of the boxes in the back; the sound instantly putting you at ease.

He gave you a thoughtful look, “you know what you need? A team.”

“A team?” You said in bewilderment, “a team of what?”

“Heroes.”

“Heroes? That’s ridiculous,” you scoffed, “people like that don’t associate with people like me.”

“What do you mean?” Stan asked, encouraging you to speak with a tilt of his head.

“Perfect people, good people. People who always know what to do and how to do it,” you explained, staring out the window to the stars above, “not me.”

“Real heroes aren’t always like that,” Stan mused, giving you a gentle smile, “they have problems just like you.”

“Sure,” you sighed bitterly, clenching your fists until your nails broke through the skin. It was nice of him to comfort you, but there was just no point. You just weren’t cut out for heroism. Seconds passed in tense silence, no sound except for the soft rumblings of the engine. 

“I’ve been alive for quite some time, and I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two along the way,” he looked over his collection of bobbleheads, lost in thought. “Real heroes are passionate about what they do, real heroes inspire others to do good. Real heroes are flawed and complex, but they work through their issues for what they believe in.”

He tapped the red and gold robot on the head, “Tony here, he’s battled so many things throughout his life. And just recently he’s managed to turn it around for the better. He’s a hero.”

_ (“The truth is...I am Iron Man.”) _

“Oh my god I forgot Iron Man was a thing, fuck,” you buried your face in your hands, “I’ve been avoiding the media since the expo, too much heartache.”

Stan laughed jovially, poking the hammer-wielding man in the forehead. “Now Thor, he’s just had the rug ripped out from under him. But he’s become a better man and is learning from his past mistakes. He’s a hero.”

_ (“Have you seen those crazy vids from New Mexico?” _

_ “What are you talking about, Mimi?” _

_ “There’s this hammer there, and apparently no one can lift it! Crazy, right?” _

_ “That’s bullshit.” _

_ “I’m gonna do some digging. There’s gotta be a story behind this.” _

_ “Uh-huh, sure.”) _

He gave the hulking monster a gentle pat, “Bruce has had his whole life flipped on its head, but he still strives to do the right thing. He’s a hero.”

_ (“Did you hear what happened in Harlem? The whole place has been torn to shit!” _

_ “Really? God, this week has been fucking crazy. I’m going to get a drink, wanna come?” _

_ “Of course I want a drink, Y/N, I’m drowning in work right now. I’m investigating this politician, you may have heard of him, Alexander Pierce?” _

_ “Nah, don’t know the guy.” _

_ “Well, I’ve been looking into him, and I’ve found some pretty interesting stuff.” _

_ “Oh shit, you wanna tell me about it?” _

_ “Can’t, too much red tape. But once I get enough evidence, I’m spilling  _ all  _ of the beans.” _

_ “Fuck yeah, Mimi! Drinks on me!”) _

“That’s all well and good,” you said cynically, poking one of the bobbleheads in the eye (a fiery redhead in a skin tight catsuit), “but what do they have to do with anything? I don’t even  _ know _ half of them.”

He gave you a knowing grin, “you will.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You and that boy of yours are gonna go through a lot,” he answered evasively, a tiny frown pulling at his lips as he looked out over the road, “the two of you will need to work together to find your happy ending.”

“Are there any happy endings?” You asked softly, hands clasped in your lap as you looked out the window. A small spark of hope lighting in your chest.

He thought carefully for a moment, brow creased as he pondered your question. “There’s one thing I know for sure,” he said resolutely;

“The good guys always win in the end.”

* * * *

“Stan, really I can pay—”

“Nonsense,” he huffed, batting your hand aside and handing the worker his credit card, “I can’t leave your husband stranded in good conscience.”

“I’ve told you already,” you groaned, “he’s not my husband.”

“Like I said, nonsense,” he repeated, “oh! I have a gift for you!”

“Stan, really, you’ve done more than enough,” you pleaded, watching as he grabbed a box from his truck and headed back to you, “I can’t possibly accept.”

He forced the box into your hands, ignoring your protests and gesturing for you to open it, “go on, look inside!”

Thoroughly defeated, you flipped open the lid and took a peek, unable to suppress a bark of laughter as you saw just what was inside. “Oh my god,” you laughed, clapping a hand over your mouth and stifling your wheezing laughter.

“Those are gen-u-ine Captain America comics,” Stan lectured, tapping the brightly painted pages with his forefinger, “you and your man are sure to get a kick out of these.”

“These are worth way too much, I shouldn’t—”

“Take them, make an old man happy,” he smiled, giving you a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t you guilt trip me, I know  _ exactly  _ what you’re doing,” you warned, glaring at him playfully. Stan laughed joyously, shrugging his shoulders unrepentantly. “But really, thank you. He’ll love these.” Your eyes softened, giddiness running through you as you imagined Bucky’s reaction.

“All set to go,” the driver said, stepping out from behind the counter and jangling his keys, “whenever you’re ready.”

“This is where we say goodbye,” Stan clapped you on the shoulder, eyes twinkling merrily from behind his glasses, “now, go get your Bucky.”

“You really don’t have to—” you paused, realizing exactly what he’d just said, “wait, how did you…?”

He flashed you a mischievous grin, turning on his heel and walking out the door. He pumped his fist in the air, calling back to you over his shoulder, “excelsior, Y/N! Excelsior!” The sun was already beginning to rise, beautiful reds and yellows washing over him like a watercolor painting. It was ethereal, magical; an image worthy of being in a comic book.

“Excelsior!” he crowed one last time, jumping into the truck with surprising zeal for a man his age. He started up the car and rounded the corner, lilting classical music echoing in his wake.

And then he was gone.

The worker stared out the window before turning back to you, a bewildered expression on his freckled face.

“You know as much as I do,” you shrugged, hefting the box up in your arms, “now please, lead the way. I’ve always wanted to ride in a tow truck.”

* * * *

You were very disappointed to find out that tow trucks didn’t live up to the hype.

“Straight ahead, we’ll see him any moment now,” you directed, peering through the windshield and scanning over the sandy dunes, “there he is!” You pointed to the dark speck on the horizon, immediately recognizing your crappy old sedan amongst the sand.

You rolled down the window, eyes sweeping over your oddly clean campsite as you searched for Bucky. Everything had been packed up and put away, any footprints and indentations in the sand completely smoothed out. It was as if no one was ever there.

“Bucky!” You called, hopping out of the passenger's seat and jogging over to the sedan. “Bucky?”

You let out a quick breath of relief when you saw him step out from behind the car, a wide smile spreading across your face despite his guilty expression.

Then you saw the fully packed bag on his back, and everything clicked into place.

“Were you about to  _ leave _ ?” You said incredulously, gesturing to the cleaned campsite and his overflowing backpack. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?”

He shrugged noncommittally, running his fingers over the coarse material of the straps as he looked down at his feet.

“Bucky,” you said gently, imploringly, “I wouldn’t just  _ abandon  _ you _. _ ” You lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, slipping off the backpack and dropping it to the ground. You pulled him in for a hug, soothingly running your hands up and down his back. “We still have a long ways to go before we get to Brooklyn.”

He wrapped his arms around you and held you close, nose buried in your hair as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“No more running away, okay?” You asked meekly, practically begging at this point. You tightened your grip around his middle, pressing your face into his chest.

“Okay,” he ceded, pulling away to look you in the eye, “okay.”

“Okay,” you nodded, backing away and giving him a wavering grin, “oh, by the way! I have a surprise for you when we get back.”

A soft smile pulled at his lips, “can’t wait.”

* * * *

“ _ Betty Carver?!” _ He said disbelievingly, squinting and holding the comic closer to his face, “even I know that’s not right”

“These comics weren’t known for their accuracy,” you explained, scooting closer and looking over his shoulder. “They were nothing but propaganda.”

He continued to scan over the page, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as he read each panel, “ _ Chucky!?” _

You threw your head back and laughed, awkwardly covering it up with a cough as the other people in the waiting room stared at you.

“Sorry,” you muttered, “my bad.” You’d been waiting at the mechanic for what felt like an eternity, praying that your car could somehow be salvaged. Although at this rate, you may need to start browsing the catalog.

“Look at this,” Bucky said upsettingly, shoving the comic into your face. “What kind of outfit is  _ that?” _

You stifled another bout of laughter, choking on your own breath as you tried to hold it in. His comic book doppelgänger was wearing a bright blue suit and boots, with blood red gloves and pants. His hair was slicked back and glossy, a domino mask perched on his nose. “I dunno, I think  _ Chucky  _ looks pretty stylish.”

He huffed indignantly, jabbing the paper with his finger and growling menacingly, “that is absolutely  _ ridiculous _ . Steve is the one in costume, not  _ me.”  _

“Boy wonder Chucky Barn,” you said dramatically, sweeping your arms and giggling hysterically, “it’s got a nice ring to it.”

“It does  _ not _ ,” he glowered, paper crinkling as his fingers tightened around the pages.

“Hey,” you admonished teasingly, “that comic is worth more than my left kidney.” Your smile faded, a bit of vulnerability shining through, “do you not like it?”

“No!” He objected, looking over the page with a surprising fondness in his eyes, “the art is...familiar, I guess. Nostalgic.”

“Glad to hear it,” you smiled, intensely relieved. “More entertainment for the road.”

“Mrs. Barnes?” The mechanic stepped out of the shop, wiping off his oil stained fingers on an old rag.

Bucky lifted a brow and turned to you, your face heating under his gaze. “I didn’t make the appointment, Stan did,” you hissed, raising your voice and smiling at the mechanic, “yes?”

“Your car is finished, the engine was completely conked. Practically snapped in half, we had to replace the whole thing..” Bucky coughed awkwardly, staring down at the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck. “ Also, you were low on gas, so we filled up your tank.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” You gushed, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a wad of change, “how much is—“

“It’s already covered,” the mechanic said dismissively, waving away your hand.

“What, how? Who?” You sputtered, tentatively slipping the money back into your pocket. Was this some sort of trap?

“Some guy named Stan,” the man shrugged, “he said he had a message for you.”

Dread curled in your stomach like a snake, cold and icy. Was it a threat, a demand, a taunt? He knew who Bucky was, who’s to say that he wasn’t Hydra? Oh, god what were you going to—

“He said to tell you; ‘Excelsior’” the mechanic said, shaking you from your panicked spiral. “Anyway, your car’s out back with all your stuff. Thank you for choosing Dale’s Automechanics.” He turned around and walked back into the shop, tossing the oily rag onto the counter. The other customers glanced away from the scene, pointedly avoiding eye contact as they tried to play off their obvious staring.

Bucky turned to you in abject confusion, “what does that even mean?”

You laughed, shaking your head in both relief and amusement.  _ Stan, you clever son of a bitch. _

“I have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	10. Quarter For Your Thoughts?

You didn’t realize how stir crazy you were until you hit the road.

It was like taking a breath of fresh air after suffocating, finally moving after days of listless stagnancy. You never wanted to see the desert again, _ever._ Just the thought of sand was enough to make you shiver. It was coarse, and rough, and irritating; and even hours later you were still shaking it out of your boots.

But the sky was bright and the breeze was cool, the scenery rolling outside the window definitely _not_ of the arid type. And for the first time in a long while, a bit of excitement lit up in your chest. 

You propped your feet up on the dashboard, head bobbing as you mouthed along to the music. “ _We all live in a yellow submarine. Yellow submarine, yellow submarine...”_

“Feet off the dash,” Bucky admonished, eyes glued to the road as he disapprovingly batted at your calf. You pouted, tucking your knees to your chest and propping your chin atop them. Petulantly sticking out your tongue when you thought he wasn’t looking. “I saw that.”

“Saw what?” You asked innocently, batting your eyelashes as you stuck out your bottom lip. He huffed and sent you a playful glare, eyes narrowing as you slyly poked your tongue out from between your teeth.

You laughed and turned away, sticking your arm out the open window and feeling the cool air glide over your skin. You wiggled your fingers, straining to reach the bushes lining the roadside, fingertips brushing over the glossy leaves. Bucky’s judging gaze bored into your skull, his blatant disapproval only goading you on.

“Be careful,” he said warningly. Though he may as well have told you to continue.

“I will, I will...Heads up!” You shouted, snatching a leaf from a passing bush and throwing it at him. The leaf fluttered pathetically, gliding back and plastering itself to your face. “Traitor.” 

He laughed, shaking his head with an _I-told-you-so_ look in his eyes. You glowered, peeling the leaf off of your face and folding it into fourths, flicking it at him and cheering when it hit him in the nose. 

“Victorious at last—hey!” You scrunched up your nose in annoyance, rubbing your forehead where he had thrown the plant projectile.“How dare you…is that a truck stop?!”

Leaf fight forgotten, you peered out the windshield and shouted in delight. Eyes widening as you spotted the cluster of cars gathered around a small brick building.

“Yes! Actual bathrooms!” You cheered, shuddering as you recalled the days you were stranded in the desert. (It was awkward for the both of you, especially with no cover around for miles) “Can we stop?” He nodded and pulled into the parking lot, rolling his eyes as you whooped and pumped your fist in the air. The two of you stepped out of the car, hoods pulled up and heads held down as you walked inside.

The interior was cozy, with a small dining area and a miniature arcade hidden in the corner. The lights were warm and the colors were soft, giving the place a homely vibe that made you feel warm and tingly inside.

“We’ll meet here in thirty minutes,” Bucky whispered, turning on his heel and heading into the men’s restroom.

“What am I supposed to do for thirty minutes?” You hissed, but he was already out of earshot, and there was no way in hell you were following after him. You huffed and muttered half-hearted insults under your breath, walking into the women's room and slipping into a stall. It was like heaven, finally using an _actual_ toilet and _actual_ toilet paper. You almost cried. 

You quickly took care of business, washing your hands and looking at yourself in the mirror.

Jesus Horatio Christ, you were a mess.

You prodded at your cheeks self consciously, wincing as you felt the buildup and grease and grime. Dark circles colored your eyes, the gauze taped over your brow adding to the ‘homeless crackhead’ look.

“Homeless druggie chique,” you said aloud, giggling hysterically to yourself. You splashed cold water onto your face, peeling off the gauze and gingerly washing your stitches. Dabbing at your stained sweatshirt and cleaning off the spots, swiping at your armpits with a wet paper towel. You stared at yourself in the mirror, smiling slightly as you admired your more put-together appearance.

“I’ve looked worse,” you acquiesced, winking and blowing a kiss to your mirror self. You twirled like a princess, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ exaggeratedly as you fired finger guns at your reflection. “Kachow!” You guffawed, enjoying your newfound confidence in spite of the perilous odds.

Your confidence faded as you noticed a woman meekly washing her hands, having undoubtedly witnessed the whole scene.

“...kachow,” you said weakly, throwing up a peace sign and awkwardly rushing out of the restroom. You retreated to the darkest corner of the building, hiding behind a glowing arcade machine as you nursed your wounded ego. You were cowering behind a claw machine, you realized. The type with the obviously rigged mechanics and crappy prizes that weren’t even worth the trouble. The misshapen cartoon characters, the deflated rubber balls, the—

_Adorable stuffed cat you wanted more than anything in your entire life._

Okay, that may be a _slight_ exaggeration, but that pretty white cat certainly caught your attention. Besides, what was the harm in wasting a couple of quarters?

Well, that depends on whether or not you have quarters to begin with.

“Damnit,” you murmured, pressing your hand to the glass and gazing longingly at the toy, pushing the buttons and wiggling the joystick experimentally. You glanced around the arcade, scrutinizing the colorful patterned carpet as you searched for... _something_. “No fucking way,” you whispered disbelievingly, bending down and scooping up two discarded quarters off of the floor, “there is a God after all!”

You slid the quarter into the slot, bouncing on your toes as the music started up and the machine whirred to life. With great care and precision, you positioned the claw over the stuffed cat’s fuzzy middle, pushing the button and waiting with bated breath as the claw lowered.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” you chanted quietly, biting your lip as the metal prongs locked around the toy and dragged it upwards, “c’mon, c’mon, c’m—no!” You slammed your fist against the glass, cursing whoever made such a horrid invention as the toy slipped from the claw’s grasp. “God damn stupid claw thingy! I’ll climb in there and beat your metaphorical ass!”

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Bucky mused, sidling up beside you and peering into the glass case.

“It’s rigged! The whole thing is rigged!” You bemoaned, pointing an accusing finger to the flimsy metal claw, “you know _exactly_ what you did, you boot licking, capitalist pig.”

He raised a brow, “you’re very...passionate, about that toy.”

“I’ll say,” You huffed, glaring angrily at the flashing LED lights. “I only have one shot left and….wait a minute,” you turned away from the machine and looked Bucky up and down, a thoughtful look on your face, “do you want to try?”

“What.”

“Here,” you stepped aside and gestured for him to take your place, “do you know how to play?”

“I think so,” he said uncertainly, gripping the joystick with his right hand (his left was hidden in his pocket).

“Okay, that’s good enough for me,” you shrugged, “I’m entrusting you and your awesome ninja skills to get that cat, no pressure,” you patted him on the back and slid the last quarter into the slot, stepping back to watch him play.

“That’s not how…” he sighed, directing his focus to the machine as he expertly maneuvered the claw over the toy. He jerked the joystick slightly to the right; tiny, purposeful movements that made the crane swing back and forth like a pendulum.

“You can do it, believe in yourself!” you encouraged from the sidelines, waving your fists like an overzealous cheerleader. 

He looked over his handiwork and nodded to himself, confidently pushing the button and watching the claw drop. You pressed your palms together in a praying position, bringing them up to your lips as you watched the claw lock around the toy. It’s grip was secure, easily carrying the cat across the bin and dropping it into the chute.

“Oh my god, I _love_ you,” you gushed as he reached into the slot and handed you the toy, “I’m naming you Alpine.” You noticed his shocked expression and quickly corrected yourself, “I was talking to the cat.”

He nodded his head absentmindedly, “ready to leave?”

“Yeah,” you pet Alpine’s fur and beamed up at Bucky, “thank you.”

He smiled softly, “anytime.”

You grinned mischievously, “in that case, there’s an alligator in there that’s _really_ cute and—”

“I take it back, let’s go.”

“Aw man.”

* * * *

“That shoulder to waist ratio is _obscene,_ ” you griped, bringing the picture book closer to your face, “he’s like a goddamn _Dorito.”_

The two of you were back on the road, Alpine perched comfortably on your lap as you critiqued the illustrations of _‘Captain America Saves the Day!’_ It was easy to do so, considering just how... _displeasing_ the drawings were.

“I can’t believe this is for children!” You exclaimed, covering Alpine’s glass eyes protectively, “Jesus Christ, did they draw his fucking _crotch?”_ You measured with your fingers, raising your eyebrows as you whistled impressively. A startled laugh burst forth from Bucky’s chest, triggering your own bout of giggles. “I swear to god, whoever drew this had a raging hard on for Captain America. Mark my words.”

Bucky shuddered, “I forgot that people look at him like that.”

“That must be weird for you, huh,” you mused, turning the page and grimacing at the new illustration.

“Yeah,” he clutched the wheel between his fingers, “I mean, before the serum nobody gave him a second glance, which was a damn shame. But afterwards...all these gals just threw themselves at him, didn’t even bother getting to know him first.”

You closed the book and tossed it in the back, encouraging him to continue with a nod of your head. It was the first time he’d _really_ opened up about the past, and you weren’t going to miss it for anything. It was the least you could do. 

“He was like a piece of meat, and I _hated_ it. Didn’t even notice all a’ the attention, ‘cause that’s just how he was. Thick headedly smart, that was Stevie,” he smiled nostalgically, bowing his head in remembrance.

“Sounds like he was a good guy.”

“Yeah,” he was quiet, lost in thoughtful contemplation, “yeah, he was.”

The two of you were silent, a depressingly mournful look plaguing his features. You hadn’t even considered the grief he must feel, knowing that everyone he’d ever met was either dead or elderly. It was impossible to imagine his pain, his trauma; even without Hydra’s involvement he would be unbelievably depressed.

“The second I get my hands on some art supplies,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “I’ll make a drawing that’ll do him justice.”

“I...thank you,” he swallowed tightly, “he would’ve liked that. He was an artist, yaknow? None of the books mention that…”

“They should,” you said resolutely, looking him in the eye and giving him a sad smile, “they really should.”

Silence, albeit much more comfortable than before. You fiddled with Alpine in your lap, sending Bucky a reassuring smile whenever you both made eye contact. Soft music crooned over the radio, the hopeful lyrics making your heart sing.

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_

_Take a sad song and make it better_

_Remember to let her into your heart_

_Then you can start to make it better_

You sighed, a soft smile spreading across your face as you stared out the window. A ‘Welcome To Utah!’ sign rolled by, officially welcoming the two of you into the next state over. 

You had a lot of lost time to make up on, and you didn’t have a moment to lose.

_Hey Jude, don't be afraid_

_You were made to go out and get her_

_The minute you let her under your skin_

_Then you begin to make it better_

“This is...The Beatles, right?” Bucky asked quietly, looking at the radio and subtly turning up the volume.

“Yeah. _Hey Jude_ , one of their most popular songs,” you explained, resting your arm on the windowsill and luxuriating in the cool breeze.

“I like them,” he said, more to himself than anything; his somber mood brightening significantly.

_And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain_

_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders_

_For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool_

_By making his world a little colder_

_Na na na na na na na na na na_

He tapped along to the beat, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he clumsily mouthed the lyrics. You smiled at his antics, adding to the music by tapping out a simple beat on the dashboard.

It was a little hectic at first, the two of you struggling to sync up. But soon enough you fell into an easy rhythm, different sounds merging together to form something truly beautiful.

_Hey Jude, don't let me down_

_You have found her, now go and get her_

_(Let it out and let it in)_

_Remember (Hey Jude) to let her into your heart_

_Then you can start to make it better_

You could see the emotion in his eyes, the tears that he wanted to shed but couldn’t bring himself to do so. You understood more than most, understood not wanting to seem weak in front of others.

He deserved to cry more than anyone. Deserved to scream and shout and shake his fist at the sky.

But you wouldn’t force him to, wouldn’t force him to do anything before he was ready. He’d already done enough for the time being, and there was no need for you to open up old wounds.

_So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin_

_You're waiting for someone to perform with_

_And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do_

_The movement you need is on your shoulder_

_Na na na na na na na na na yeah_

So you laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed, fixing him with the kindest look you had to offer.

“You okay?”

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_

_Take a sad song and make it better_

_Remember to let her under your skin_

_Then you'll begin to make it (Whoa, fucking hell!)_

_Better better better better better better, oh_

He turned to you in astonishment, eyes flicking disbelievingly from your hand up to you. A small smile spread across his face, walls melting as he took in your unabashed kindness.

“I am now.”

* * * *

“Y/N, are you sure this is the right way?”

“Yeah, that’s what the map says.”

“Are you _positive?”_

“Yes, I’m sure! We just need to take that exit over there!”

“That one?”

“Yes! Wait, no! _That_ one.”

“This one?”

“Argh! We missed it!”

“What? I went where you said!”

“I was wrong!”

“What do you mean you were wrong?”

“I was holding the map the wrong way!”

“How can you hold a map the wrong way?!”

“I dunno!”

“Y/N!”

“Bucky!”

“...”

“...never mind, we’re going the right way.”

“ _Y/N.”_

_“_...oops.”

* * * *

“We’re out of water,” you announced, peering into the backseat and dismissively searching through the mess.

“There’s some in the trunk,” Bucky objected, navigating carefully through the rapidly darkening twilight, fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel.

“No, I moved it into the backseat so we could reach it easier,” you explained, reaching back and digging through the jumbled piles of stuff, “there’s none left.”

“How can there be none left?” He asked, panic creeping into the edge of his voice. He was becoming much easier to read, and you prided yourself on being able to decipher his emotions. Even if they were more...negative leaning.

“When you’re stranded in the desert for five days, water tends to _disappear_ ,” you deadpanned, turning around and settling back into your seat. “Don’t worry, we can survive off of our own piss.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, though something told you that he would do so if absolutely necessary.

“We’re running low on food, too,” you reported, “I didn’t expect us to get stranded so long. I didn’t expect to get stranded at _all._ ”

He hummed consideringly, “our charcoal supply is almost gone as well.”

“Hey, at least we have what’s _really_ important,” you said with mock seriousness. Gesturing to Alpine, the box of comics, and the biographies littered all over the car.

“We can’t live off of those.”

“ _Technically,_ ” you argued, “we can. Have you ever eaten paper?” He fixed you with a blank look, “I’ll take that as a no then.”

“Check the map,” he directed, “see if there’s a place for us to stock up on supplies.”

You pulled the map out of the glove compartment, eyes narrowing as you tried to make sense of the tangle of squiggly lines. You pressed your nose to the paper, pointer finger trailing along the twisting roads.

“We’re pretty close to Salt Lake City,” you said, folding up the map, “in a few hours we’ll be there.”

“Are you _sure?_ ” he said disbelievingly, a teasing bite to his voice, “you might be holding the map wrong.”

“One time!” You said exasperatedly, begrudgingly double checking the directions, “ _one time!”_ He smirked, and you sent him a withering glare, folding up the map and stowing it away. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright then.” You scowled, grabbing Alpine and tossing it at him. He batted Alpine away without even looking, knocking him back into your arms. 

“Abuse!” You shouted accusingly, clutching Alpine to your chest, “how dare you!”

“You’re the one that threw it,” he said logically.

“It’s only okay when _I_ do it,” you pouted, petting Alpine’s fur apologetically. He scoffed, biting back a smile as he looked out at the road.

And with that, your friendship finally began to blossom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> [Song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=A_MjCqQoLLA)


	11. It’s A Barbie World Out There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick TW: implied drug use, past drug use
> 
> They’re only mentioned in passing, but please be wary while reading!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Stay close to me,” Bucky lectured for the eleventh time that hour, grabbing your hand and dragging you away from the shop window.

“Aw,” you pouted, gazing longingly over your shoulder at the elaborate display of Prismacolors and Posca pens, “but it’s so  _ cool. _ ”

“There’s a million others just like ‘em,” he explained (for the sixth time in an hour), “let’s go.”

You rolled your eyes and let yourself be dragged away, resisting the urge to stop and stare like a wide eyed tourist. There was just so much  _ stuff,  _ a constant bombardment of activity that had you spinning like a top. Even in a thousand lifetimes you wouldn’t be able to look at it all, wouldn’t be able to take in the full scale of Salt Lake City.  Art galleries were held at every street corner, musicians lined the sidewalks and filled the air with soulful music, performers danced and sang and made the streets come alive with vivacity. It was truly something to behold, and you didn’t want to miss any second of it.

“And keep your hood up,” he reprimanded, tugging the fabric over your head, “low profile, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you groused, obediently ducking your head, “sorry.”

He sighed goodnaturedly and gave your arm a reassuring squeeze, “c’mon, we have some shopping to do.”

The two of you swept through the city, ducking in and out of stores as you searched for what you needed. You combed over the shelves as if it were the apocalypse; grabbing every can, box, or bottle that you could find. Arms laden with plastic bags as you waddled from one shop to the next, huffing and puffing as you struggled to bear the weight.

“We have everything,” Bucky announced, checking over the overflowing bags and nodding approvingly.

“That was quick,” you grinned, following after him as he weaved through the streets, cutting through the crowds without causing so much as a ripple, “god, I can’t wait to put these down.”

“Here, let me,” he offered, reaching out to take some of the heavier bags from you. You clumsily ducked out of reach, far too stubborn to even consider accepting his help.

“I got it,” you protested, somehow managing to tangle yourself in the mess of bags, “I meant to do that.”

“Sure, doll,” he huffed, scooping up half of your bags before you could object. You couldn’t deny that he was at an advantage—what with the metal arm and super strength—but that didn’t mean you had to like it. You were a strong, independent woman who didn’t need no man. You could carry your own damn bags, kinda.

“Thanks, Ken,” you teased, poking fun at the—admittedly heartwarming—endearment he’d used earlier.

“Who?” He said confusedly, the reference completely lost on him.

“It’s the name of a toy,” you explained, crossing the street before the light could turn green, “Ken and Barbie, I’ll show you sometime.” 

He hummed agreeably—if not a little confused, walking over to where he’d parked the car and unlocking the trunk. 

“Finally,” you sighed melodramatically, dumping your bags into the car, “and we still have some time to spare!”

“Mhm,” he hummed, tossing everything into the trunk and slamming it closed. He slipped into the driver's seat and turned the key, looking at you expectantly when you didn’t immediately climb in, “what?”

“What yourself,” you snarked, determinedly placing your hands on your hips, “we have extra time, let’s  _ do  _ something.”

“Y/N—“

“I know, I know,  _ low profile, _ ” you sighed, “but we don’t have to do anything crazy, just... _ something. _ ”

“Define  _ something,”  _ he said dully, but you could tell that he was warming up to the idea.

“Uh…” You quickly glanced around, smiling triumphantly as you pointed to one of the surrounding shops, “how about  _ that?” _

“An art supply store,” he deadpanned.

“I have to go in at least  _ one _ ,” you shrugged, smiling hopefully, “whaddya say?”

He thought for a moment, unnecessarily drawing out the suspense. “Alright,” he finally acquiesced, stepping out of the car and gesturing for you to take the lead, “not for too long, though.”

“Thanks, Buck,” you beamed, bounding over to the shop and staring longingly through the painted window. Beautiful works of art hung from behind the glass, vibrant paints and magnificent brush strokes that made you drool with envy. You turned to head inside, a wide smile pulling at your lips, when something stopped you dead in your tracks.

It was the smell, the smell that was so horrifyingly familiar. The smell of smoke, of pine and skunk and ruminating in your dorm for hours on end; high off of the very air you breathed. 

Memories came flooding back, countless hours spent with smoke in your lungs and clouds in your eyes. Days spent wasting away on the couch, nothing to do except take another hit, and another and another. Kids who thought they knew it all and “c’mon, something harder won’t hurt ya.” Sitting all alone with a joint in one hand and an invitation in another, wondering where it all went wrong. 

Memories of lining up that needle and  _ injecting— _

“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly, laying a gentle hand on your shoulder. You startled, looking up at his worried face and sending him a shaky smile.

“Yeah, just tired from carrying all those bags,” you said dismissively, walking inside the shop before he could pick apart your lie, taking a deep breath of blessedly clean air.

The place was small, but had a homely, loving touch that made it that much more appealing. Wooden shelves sagged under the weight of sketchbooks and pencils, scribbly designs doodled over the dark grain. You ran your hand over the crisp papers, fingers dancing over the notebooks as you admired the craftsmanship, walking through the aisles and taking it all in.

You turned around and smiled when you saw Bucky, suppressing a snort as you watched him carefully sidestep through the aisle. The shelves were dwarfed when compared to his height, and for once his looming presence seemed more comical than eerie.

“Watch your step,” you warned, becoming the world's biggest hypocrite when you stepped on a stray canvas, the material breaking with a guilty crunch, “oops.”

He sent you an unimpressed look, smirking slightly as you slyly tucked the broken canvas behind a stack of easels.

“You saw nothing,” you said darkly, glaring at him as he grinned and made a zipping motion across his lips.

The two of you wandered through the store, Bucky trailing behind you as you darted from one place to another like a hyperactive squirrel. He seemed genuinely interested in your ramblings, nodding along and even offering his own opinion every now and then. It was refreshingly normal, something you so desperately needed after the craziness of the past week.

“Holy shit,” you whispered to no one in particular, eyes widening as you took in the display laid out before you, “look at  _ that.”  _

It was an advertisement for a nearby art gallery, sporting a few of the artist’s best works to draw in potential visitors. It was like nothing you’d ever seen before, taking techniques that you were familiar with and turning them on their head. Stippling and portraiture, such simple concepts altered and changed to fit the artist’s vision. 

The background was of a dark night sky, nebulous clouds of colorful gases swirling across the canvas. A portrait was painted atop it, bright white stippling that stood out against the dark backdrop, giving the effect of a sky full of stars. The series was cleverly named “Starstruck,” the starry portraits having undoubtedly earned the title.

_ (She would’ve loved this). _

“Hey Bucky, what d’you—“ you turned around and paused, realizing that he was no longer behind you, “Bucky?” You spun around on your heel, panic mounting as you failed to locate him. He couldn’t have gotten very far, and there was no reason for him to be hiding.

Right?

“ _ Bucky _ ,” you whisper-yelled, peeking around the corner in search of the elusive assassin, “ _ where are you? _ ”

Anxiously, you began to search. Sweeping through the store and double checking every nook and cranny (you even swallowed your pride and peeked into the men’s room, your great sacrifice proving fruitless when you still couldn’t find him).

“Bucky, I swear to god if you ran again I might just cry—oh—!” You cut off your sentence with a gasp, crashing into someone who was definitely  _ not  _ Bucky, “I’m so sorry!”

The man you’d ran into took an awkward step back, smiling politely and waving off your apology, “don’t worry about it, shoulda been paying attention myself.” You returned his smile stiffly, eyes flicking about the room as you kept searching for a familiar silhouette. “What’re you looking for?” He asked, his brows drawing together as he followed your line of sight.

“Uh,” you blanched, strangely unsettled by the man in front of you. Maybe it was his dark circles, or the angular sweep of his jaw, or perhaps even the hungry gleam in his brown eyes. But either way, you found yourself extremely uncomfortable; never a good sign. “The paintbrushes…?”

You realized your mistake as the man turned to his left and grabbed a brush off of the shelf, holding it out to you and raising a disbelieving brow, “here ya go.”

“Oh!” You exclaimed, laughing nervously as you took the proffered brush in hand, “I’m such an idiot, thank you.”

“No problem,” he nodded, smiling almost predatorially as he walked past you and disappeared behind a shelf.

You set the brush back on the counter with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you tried to dismiss the anxiety in your gut. Pushing down the strange sense of unease that had taken root in your stomach. You felt a hand grasp your shoulder, letting out an indignant shriek before you recognized the owner of said hand.

“ _ Bucky _ ,” you sighed in relief, brushing his hand aside playfully, “you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

He smiled sheepishly, inclining his head towards the door and gesturing for you both to leave. You nodded agreeably—suppressing your disappointment in having not bought anything—following after him as he walked out the door and back to your car. The two of you slipped into your respective seats, loitering for a second as you paused to catch your breath.

“The moment we’ve all been waiting for,” you announced dramatically, reaching into the backseat and tearing open the water case, snatching up the prize buried within, “behold! Not-piss!”

Bucky snorted, accepting the bottle you handed him and twisting off the cap, bringing it up to his lips and taking a long swallow. You grabbed your own drink and lounged back in your seat, taking a leisurely gulp of your well deserved beverage.

“A toast,” you cheered, raising your crumpled bottle to the ceiling, “to not dying of thirst. Amen, god bless.”

Bucky raised his drink and took a sip, eyes glancing about shiftily as he swallowed. He seemed somewhat...nervous, unsure. And now  _ you  _ were nervous and unsure. 

“Oh, hey!” You exclaimed, breaking the uncomfortable silence like a dinner plate, “I have something to show you.” You grabbed your sister’s disc from the glove compartment and slid it into the CD player, skipping through the mixtape until you found the exact song you were looking for.

_ Hiya, Barbie _

_ Hi, Ken _

_ Do you wanna go for a ride? _

_ Sure, Ken _

_ Jump in _

“Y’know how I was talking about Ken earlier?” He nodded. “Well this song is about him, and Barbie too, I guess.”

_ I'm a Barbie girl, in the Barbie world _

_ Life in plastic, it's fantastic _

_ You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere _

_ Imagination, life is your creation _

_ Come on, Barbie, let's go party _

“It’s not exactly  _ accurate _ , considering all of the implied,  _ ahem—”  _ you made an obscene notion that made Bucky choke on his drink “—if you know what I mean.”

He sent you a chiding glare, a flash of anxiety flitting across his face before smoothing away. 

“Is something wrong?” You asked softly, concerned by his sudden mood shift. Aqua sang in the background, the bubbly lyrics a poor accompaniment to the serious subject matter at hand.

“No!” He objected, setting down his drink and awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m fine, it’s just...”

“Yes?”

He gave you a nervous grin and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a leather sketchbook along with a set of graphite pencils.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want ‘em,” he muttered, shoving the tools into your hands and glancing away, “it’s just that you mentioned wanting to draw a coupla times, so I grabbed ‘em for you.” He looked up and wilted at your blank expression, interpreting your silence as a rejection, “‘m sorry.”

You took the supplies in hand and ran your fingers over the fancy materials, shaking yourself out of your shocked stupor, “oh my god, Bucky…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn't've—”

“This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in  _ years _ , oh my fucking god,” you clutched the supplies to your chest, beaming like a spotlight as you smiled at him, “thank you, Buck. _ ” _

His mouth opened in a cute little ‘o,’ shock evident on his features as your words slowly sunk in. He gave you a wide smile that challenged your own, averting his eyes almost shyly, “you’re welcome.”

“No, really,” you leaned over and wrapped your arms around him, sketchbook tossed aside as you pulled him in for a hug. It was extremely uncomfortable, the console digging painfully into your stomach as you tightened your grip. But you wouldn’t change it for the world, “ _ thank you.” _

He gingerly returned your embrace, arms loose around you as if he feared you would break. Hand splayed across your back as he held you steady, tucking your head protectively beneath his chin. It was so warm and comfortable; happiness ringing through your chest as you were securely cocooned in his arms.

And with everything seeming so perfect, the man from before just...slipped from your mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> [Song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyhrYis509A)


	12. Fight Or Flight

“Why can’t I draw!?” you complained, slamming your sketchbook down and staring broodingly at the smudged paper, “it’s like I’ve forgotten how!” 

Bucky let you pout—having learned not to intervene after your previous frustrated outbursts—eyes glued to the road as you crossed state lines into Wyoming. Alpine stared worriedly from his place on the dashboard, glassy eyes shining in the sunlight as he watched the childish scene unfold.

“Like, why did I think this was right?” You flipped through your sketchbook and turned it towards Bucky, pointing to your egregious attempt at drawing a hand, “it’s not supposed to _bend_ like that, Jesus.”

“It looks good, Y/N,” he comforted, reassuring you on autopilot.

“You didn’t even look at it,” you grumbled, turning the book back towards you and glaring at the messy sketch, “it looks like a boney octopus.”

Bucky snorted amusedly, shaking his head slightly as he listened to your angry mutterings. You’d been like this for the past few hours, sketching furiously only to shout and swear whenever you lost momentum. Quickly tiring yourself out and burying your nose back into your already well-worn sketchbook. It was almost impressive, the way you strung your curse words together so _creatively._ You were quite proud of yourself, actually.

“Okay, okay,” you breathed, collecting yourself and taking your discarded pencil in hand, “just one more sketch.”

“You said that last time,” Bucky deadpanned, raising a sardonic brow.

“Shush,” you huffed, flipping to a blank page and pressing your pencil to the paper, “let the _artiste_ work.” 

The soft scratch of graphite against paper echoed throughout the silent car, the rhythmic pattern oddly soothing as you quietly sketched. Your hand moved in arching loops and graceful swirls, scribbling furiously as you fought to bring your vision to life. Focusing so intensely that you poked your tongue out from between your teeth, swiping it across your lips as you drew your brows together in concentration. With one last dramatic flourish, you finished your drawing. Licking the pads of your fingers and washing the graphite smudges off of your palm. 

“And voila!” you exclaimed, turning the page towards Bucky with an exalted bow, “the next Mona Lisa!”

He glanced over at your drawing and snorted, lips tugging up in a smile as he fought to remain surly. It was a rough drawing of him and you; Bucky scowling exaggeratedly as you stuck your tongue out at him, standing up on your tippy toes for good measure.

“Accurate,” he mused, and you petulantly stuck out your tongue in response. It’s as they say _,_ life imitates art.

“Aw, shit,” you glanced down and noticed the blunt tip of your pencil, looking to Bucky pleadingly and holding out the stubby tool, “could you sharpen it again, please?”

He sighed heavily and took your pencil in hand, grabbing a wicked looking knife from the folds of his jacket and whittling down the tip. He balanced the wheel atop his _~~very thick~~ _thighs, steering carefully as he focused on carving your pencil to a sharp point, wood shavings falling into his lap as he cut away the grain. Satisfied with his handwork, he tucked the knife away and handed you your pencil back, returning his hands safely to the wheel.

“Thanks,” you smiled, marvelling at the sharpness and twirling it in your hand like a baton, “y’know, maybe I should have my _own_ knife.”

“No,” he answered firmly, his tone brokering no chance for debate.

But then again, you were never that good with social cues. “Why not?” you whined, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” he answered succinctly.

“I would not--well…” you trailed off sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck as you realized that he was right, “but you’ll teach me how to use one, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, regretting his decision as soon as he spoke.

“Nice,” you grinned, a mischievous smirk alighting in your eyes, “ _knife throwing.”_

“ _No,_ ” he objected, a thousand and one horrible scenarios undoubtedly running through his mind. 

“Dang it,” you muttered. This time, you knew better than to argue, “maybe someday…”

**_“No.”_ **

“Okay, jeez, I’ll stick to drawing,” you promised, shaking out the ache in your wrist. You cracked your knuckles and snatched one of the biographies off of the ground, flipping through the pages until you found the image you were looking for, “no more warm ups, it’s time for the real thing.” 

You pressed the sharpened point of your pencil to the paper, and began to draw. Sketching with an intense fervor that rivaled the greats, sweat beading on your brow as your pencil skated across the paper in swift, calculated movements. Sweeping across the page like a bird of prey, dipping and gliding in magnificent, swooping arcs. If you were focused before, it was nothing compared to you now. Staring unblinkingly at the paper until your eyes burned, wiping away your tears before they could fall onto the page. You breathed life into your precious drawing, pouring every last ounce of skill into the picture you so painstakingly crafted beneath your fingertips. 

And with one last flick of your wrist, you were done.

Infinitely more somber than before, you angled your sketchbook towards Bucky and showed him your drawing. “What do you think?” You asked softly, noticing how his breath caught as he gazed at his late best friend. Captain Rogers smiled relaxedly as he glanced off to the side, shield clutched loosely in hand as his eyes twinkled with mirth, “I tried to do him justice, but…”

“No, it’s…” he swallowed tightly, turning back to look out at the road, “he would’ve loved it. Thank you.”

You gave him a gentle smile, closing your sketchbook and carefully tucking it away.

“Anytime.”

* * * *

“I didn’t realize that there were goddamn _mountains_ here!? _”_

“And this is shocking because…?”

“It’s Wyoming! Nothing interesting is in Wyoming!”

“The Rockies, for one.”

“Rub it in, why dontcha. I’m sorry that I didn’t extensively research fucking _Wyoming_ in my youth.”

“You really don’t like Wyoming.”

“Who _likes_ Wyoming?”

“Not you, apparently.”

“Ha ha, Bucky. Very funny.”

* * * *

You didn’t know what to do.

It was dark, scarily dark. The silence pressing in like a thick fog as you sat helplessly in the passenger’s seat. You’d been assigned to keep watch as Bucky slept, since there was no way in hell that _you_ would be able to. A young girl, at night, in an empty parking lot? That just screamed trouble.

But there were no serial killers. No creeps lurking outside the car, just waiting for a chance to strike.

For you see, the danger wasn’t outside.

It was already _in_.

It started with quiet whimpering, panicked gasps that made you nervously glance over in Bucky’s direction, chewing your bottom lip as empathy warred with common sense. His brows were drawn together, expression twisted fearfully even in sleep. Tormented by nightmares you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Then, it escalated.

He started thrashing, guttural shouts tearing from his throat as he flailed. Metal arm glinting in the light as the plates whirred and clicked, fingers gripping the seat and literally _tearing_ through the leather. Guilt churned in your stomach as you watched him suffer, uncertainty added to the mix as you struggled to think of how you could help him.

“Bucky,” you whispered, backing away as his episode worsened. You reached out towards him and quickly jumped back, your mind finally catching up with your body. He was incredibly volatile at the moment; a bomb mere seconds away from going off. One wrong move, and things would end _very_ badly for the both of you. (Especially for you, the unenhanced, one hundred percent fleshy human).

As quietly as possible, you unlocked the door and slowly began to slip outside; trying desperately to put some much-needed distance between the two of you. Every squeak of the leather made you freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you fought not to panic. You hunkered down behind the car door, peering into the vehicle from the safety of the sidewalk.

“Bucky, you need to wake up,” you whispered, definitely _not_ cowering behind the door.

No response.

Slightly louder this time, “ _Bucky.”_

It all happened so fast. One moment you were safely behind the door, the next you were tackled to the ground. Pinned beneath Bucky’s weight as he brandished a knife in his flesh hand, his arm rearing back and crashing down in a graceful arc. There was no time to panic—even as you stared up into Bucky’s wide, fear glazed eyes—clutching his wrist in both hands as you tried to angle the knife away from your skull, the tip inches away from piercing your glistening cornea. 

His grip was uncharacteristically shaky, his once inhuman strength muted by crippling panic. It was the only reason you were still alive, and not skewered like a barbecued kebab. Although that may not be the case for much longer...

You should’ve known not to startle him, should’ve known that he’d instantly jump into fight-or-flight mode upon awakening.

Should’ve known that he’d pick fight.

“Bucky,” you gasped, wincing as the knifepoint pressed into your cheek, blood bubbling up around the dark blade, “ _it’s me._ ”

His eyes cleared slightly of their foggy haze, recognition flashing briefly across his face before fading away. His resolve faltered, loosening his grip on the knife for just one, precious second. Only for him to then tighten his fingers around the hilt and _push_.

“ _James!”_ you cried out, squeezing your eyes shut as you braced yourself for the finishing blow.

It never came.

You tentatively cracked your eyelids open, letting out a soft sigh of relief as you noticed his stricken expression; awareness crashing over him like a bucket of ice water. The knife fell to the ground with a sharp clang, Bucky’s gaze drifting down to the shallow cut on your cheek, all colour draining from his face as he realized what he’d done. He scrambled off of you with a gasp, the sudden loss of pressure making you wheeze pathetically. 

You brought your hand up to your cheek, unintentionally smearing blood across your skin as you poked at your wound. “That’s gonna scar,” you hummed absentmindedly, regretting your words as you watched him literally _deflate_ , “but it’ll look _so_ badass!”

He stared at you disbelievingly, self loathing oozing from every pore as he not-so-subtly folded in on himself. Shoulders hunched and spine bowed as he took a stumbling step back, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t’ve...oh god I—”

“I’m fine, really,” you reassured, sitting up and smiling encouragingly, slapping your palm against your chest with a hearty thump, “not dead.”

“I almost _killed_ you,” he said quietly, staring down at his trembling fingers. Looking at his metal arm as if he wanted to **_rip_ ** it off with his **_bare hands_ **.

“But you didn’t,” you objected, rising to your feet and taking a small step towards him, “you didn’t know what was happening, it wasn’t your fault.” He didn’t believe you, that much was obvious. His face deliberately wiped blank as he stood stock still, taking a few stiff steps back and opening the driver’s side door. _“It wasn’t your fault,_ ” you reiterated, snatching the knife off of the ground and holding it out to him, “okay?”

He didn’t answer, mutely taking the knife in hand and staring at the blade, wiping away the thin sheen of blood with the pad of his thumb. “The first aid kit is in the trunk,” he said quietly, shamefully tucking the knife away, “I’ll keep watch.”

“Bucky...” you said imploringly, unable to do anything but watch as he slipped into the car, silently closing the door behind him. 

You let out a heavy sigh, walking over to the back and throwing the trunk open, rummaging through the piles of junk and pulling out the kit. You flipped it open and grabbed what little you needed, closing the box and slamming the trunk shut with a little more force than necessary. You stormed over to the front and ducked into the passenger’s seat, staring at your reflection in the rearview mirror as you swiped at your cheek with an alcohol wipe. Wincing at the unpleasant sting as you clumsily unwrapped a bandaid, plastering it over the cut and patting down the cloth. At this rate, your face would be covered in bandages in a matter of days.

“Get some sleep,” Bucky ordered, refusing to even look at you. You swallowed your protests, turning away from him and staring out the window.

Neither of you slept that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally supposed to be longer, but I cut it in half for some good ol’ Dramatic Tension. Sorry that it’s shorter than usual!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	13. We Could Be Heroes

You wished he’d talk to you.

He hadn’t said a word to you since that night. Hell, he’d barely even _looked_ at you. And you weren’t going to lie, it stung. You thought that you’d talked it out, had finally reached some sort of mutual understanding. But upon reflection, that just wasn’t the case. Trauma can’t be solved in one conversation, nightmares can’t be cured with a blanket, decade old habits can’t be broken in a week. It was foolish to believe otherwise.

But if he would just _talk_ to you, then maybe you could work through it. 

You knew that you had issues--enough to make any well-to-do therapist question their career choice--but he made you want to figure them out. And if you couldn’t do the same for him, then what kind of friend were you?

_Friend_ . It was crazy to think that your relationship had progressed that fast. Normally you’d cut someone off after the whole, y’know, attempted murder and kidnapping thing. But this was different, _he_ was different. You cared about him, a lot. And it hurt to see him so upset, trapped in an endless loop of self hatred and guilt.

But once again, if he’d just _talk to you_ —

No. You weren’t going to force anything, weren’t going to make him open up to you before he was ready. 

So, in the meantime, you just admired the lush scenery. Staring out the window as snow capped mountains rolled by, driving higher and higher up an incline as you traveled through the Rockies. Content to just observe, happy to watch the gorgeous landscape quietly pass you by. You actually felt guilty for your past Wyoming-bashing. Sure, only five people actually lived there, but the mountains were pretty and the sky was clear. And that was more than enough for you. Call you simple, but after a lifetime of living in the city, you were eager for some change.

_(And, admittedly, the city had far too many bad memories. Things you’d do anything to forget._

_Things you’d already_ tried _to forget)._

But you weren’t going to dwell on that, and most certainly weren’t going to dwell on _him._

Afterall, you’d sworn not to bother Bucky. A vow made useless by you stealing glances at him like a middle schooler with a crush. Glances that he most definitely noticed, but never mentioned. Whether it was for his sake or yours, you weren’t sure. But you were thankful either way.

You propped your elbow up on the open windowsill, the wind gently caressing your cheek as you rested your chin in your hand, eyes falling shut with a weak flutter. God, you were fucking _tired;_ had been for the past few hours, days, _~~seven~~ years _ . Last night was just the catalyst, unleashing a flood of bone deep _exhaustion_ that settled over you like a thick, gritty smog. Pressing down on your chest and suffocating you, streaming down your throat and choking your lungs.

God, the last time you were _this_ exhausted was when...when...

**_(The invitation)._ **

_No._ Out of anything you could possibly dwell on, _that_ was at the bottom of the list. It wasn’t even _on_ the goddamn list. You’d pushed those pesky emotions deep, deep down; buried them, burned them, destroyed them. Never to see the light of day again.

( _Anything to stop the pain, the guilt; the agonizing,_ agonizing _,grief)_

You balled your hand into a fist, squeezing your eyes shut until your eyelids ached from the strain. Bucky’s calculating gaze burned into the back of your skull, his magic assassin skills sensing your inner turmoil like a trauma bloodhound. You unconsciously reached up to pick at your band aid, realizing your misstep far too late as he abruptly looked away. Shame flaring in his heart as he recalled that fateful night.

Guilt settled in your stomach as you imagined _his_ guilt. For all he knew, you were still reeling over the failed stabbing attempt; traumatized by the blood he’d unintentionally drawn. But hey, what’s life if you haven’t been stabbed once or twice? It wouldn’t have been the first time...

But how were you supposed to tell him that, _if he wouldn’t talk to you?_

You opened your eyes with a sigh, tilting your head to the side as you looked out over the beautiful scenery. Driving past a grove of trees and revealing the miles and miles of mountains that spanned out below, the sun casting it’s warm rays onto the green, rolling hills that fanned out over the horizon. It truly was a sight to behold, something you’d love to draw if the urge ever struck you. 

Then the sunlight glinted off of the leaves _just_ right, and everything clicked into place.

Screw the awkward tension, you had _art_ to make. And nobody--not even the Soviet-trained assassin sitting to your left--could stop you.

“Pull over, pull over!” you shouted, breaking the silence like a precious family heirloom, pointing frantically to where you wanted him to park. For the first time in hours, he looked directly at you; brow creased in worry as he did exactly as you asked. Pulling up and parking right beside the cliff’s edge, facing out over the glorious mountain range as he took the keys out of the ignition.

“What--” he began, but his question was answered for him as you grabbed your sketchbook and hopped out of the car, jumping up onto the hood and comfortably lounging against the windshield, “oh.”

You let out a soft sigh of satisfaction, looking out admiringly over the mountains as you flipped open your sketchbook, turning to a blank page and suddenly groaning in annoyance, “‘course I forgot my fucking--”

“Here,” Bucky said from beside you, the low rasp of his voice making you jump in surprise. He held out his hand to you, unfurling his fingers to reveal the freshly-sharpened pencil cradled in his palm.

“Thanks,” you hummed, gingerly plucking the pencil from his grasp. He nodded curtly and turned away, freezing in place as you unexpectedly called out to him. “Wait,” you interrupted, swallowing nervously as he swiveled around to face you, “you can...you can sit, if you want.”

He seemed conflicted, jaw ticking as his lips pressed together into a tight line, unable to meet your eye as he teetered between stepping back and stepping forward.

“Please,” you whispered, an embarrassingly pleading note to your voice. Reluctantly, he caved; hopping up onto the hood and sitting down beside you, spine stiff and muscles taut as he kept his arms close to his sides.

You sketched in silence, acutely aware of his looming presence on your left as you dragged your pencil across the paper. Distractedly chewing your bottom lip as you struggled to portray the quiet grace and majesty of the mountains below. You looked out over the sprawling landscape, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you took in the gloriously breathtaking scenery.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” you breathed, bringing the pencil up to your mouth and tapping the eraser against your lower lip, distracted by the gorgeous mountain range laid out before you.

“I guess…” he murmured, voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it. You turned to look at him, noticing how he subtly clutched his prosthetic to his chest, eyes haunted with painful memories.

“You alright?” you inquired softly, worried that you’d pushed him too far with this little venture.

“Yeah, it’s just…” he took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say, “I don’t like heights,” he paused thoughtfully, “I don’t think I like mountains, either.”

Oh.

_Oh._

You were a fucking _idiot._

“We can leave, if you want,” you offered, screaming internally as you realized your accidental insensitivity. The dude had fallen down a _cliff_ , in the _Swiss Alps._ Y’know, the _mountain._ He had every right to be uncomfortable.

“No!” he objected, looking at you with wide eyes before awkwardly glancing away, “I’m fine, I don’t mean to be a bother.” 

This wasn’t about the mountains, not anymore.

“You’re not,” you reassured, “you can tell me anything, I’ll always listen.”

He gave a sardonic chuckle, drawing his knee up to his chest and resting an arm atop it, “I don’t deserve it.”

“Bucky--”

“ _Don’t,”_ he interrupted, silencing you with an agonized glance. Head bowed forward, hair falling in curtains around his face and hiding him from view, “just...don’t.” He took a deep, stuttering breath, “I don’t deserve your kindness, your...your _understanding…”_

“Oh, James,” you said softly, wishing you could comfort him more. But the floodgates were open, the walls crumbling down. Tumbling off of the cliff to the jagged rocks below.

But this time, you were there to catch him.

_“_ ‘Cause whenever I get something good, I _ruin_ it. Hurt it, _kill_ it,” he looked down at his metal arm, gripping the plates as if he were about to tear it off. Fingers dipping into the grooves and _tugging_ , one rip away from prying it loose. “If I had just _died_ in that fall then-- _”_

“ _No,_ ” you objected, tossing your sketchbook aside and turning to face him, reaching out and grabbing his flesh hand before he could pull away. “I don’t care what you think, you don’t deserve to _die.”_

“I almost _killed_ you.”

“I was the stupid one who tried to wake you up!” You argued, squeezing his hand in yours and trying to meet his eye, “I know what it’s like to wake up from a nightmare, I know how confusing and scary it can be. I should’ve known better, I _did_ know better.” You ducked your head and gazed into his eyes, unable to look away, _“It wasn’t your fault._ ”

“But I still did it,” he breathed, a vulnerable look in his eyes that you were wholly unaccustomed to, “I still did it.” He glanced up at you, gaze lingering on your peeling bandaid as his eyes grew dewy. “All I do is hurt people,” he practically sobbed, tearing his eyes away and staring at the chipped paint of the hood, “I don’t know anything else.”

You cradled his hand in yours, offering comfort even when words failed you. Gently stroking his callused knuckles with the pad of your thumb. 

He stared down at his prosthetic with reproach, wrenching his hand away and grabbing at his left shoulder. “They tore me apart and gave me _this._ Made my body into...into their own personal _weapon_ .” He glared at the shining metal, the plates whirring and clicking as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “It’s killed so many people, _I’ve_ killed so many people,” he breathed, the morbid confession punched right out of his chest. “I see them everywhere, even in my dreams. My nightmares _,_ more like it,” he gave a humorless chuckle, voice cracking in anguish. “They won’t leave me alone,” he whispered brokenly, “it’s the one thing I actually deserve.” 

Then, even quieter, “I’m a monster.”

“It wasn’t your--”

“I did it. It doesn’t matter what you say, _I did it.”_

You sat in silence, unsure as to how you could make him feel better. Unsure that you even _could_ make him feel better.

But you had to try.

“In chess...you don’t blame the pawn for the pieces it takes,” you began hesitantly, reaching out and tentatively laying your hand on his shoulder, “you blame the _player,_ instead _.”_ He looked up at you in shock, staring disbelievingly at the hand delicately curled around his bicep. You reached out with your other hand and twined his human fingers in yours, squeezing tightly and refusing to let go. 

“And sure, the pawn is the one that does the dirty work. The one that actually takes the piece off of the board. But the player directs it, manipulates it, _makes the decision for it._ The pawn is nothing more than...well...a pawn,” you smiled sadly, glancing up at him and feeling your expression soften, “I’ll say it as many times as I need to, _it wasn’t your fault.”_

“It is,” he objected, voice wavering with long suppressed emotion.

“It isn’t,” you contrasted, squeezing his hand in yours and bringing it up to your chest, clutching it to your heart and letting him feel the gentle thud of your heartbeat.

“It is,” he echoed, quieter than before. Leaning into your touch ever so slightly as you scooched closer to his side.

“It isn’t _,”_ you whispered, pressing your forehead to his and staring into his watering eyes, “ _it isn’t.”_

“It…” he broke off with an aborted sob, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he finally, _finally_ , began to cry. Shoulders heaving with bone shaking sobs as he gasped for breath, wetting your clothed shoulder with his own tears. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, metal arm anchored to his side as his hand splayed across your back. Hiccuping sobs wracking through his chest as seventy years of trauma overwhelmed him all at once, sweeping him up and pulling him under the dark, dark waves.

But you were there to hold him, to keep his head above water as he fought not to drown.

“Shush, you’re okay. Just let it all out,” you hummed comfortingly, running your hand soothingly up and down his back. He pressed his face into your collarbone and sobbed, gasping wetly as he struggled to compose himself.

“‘M sorry,” he whimpered, wiping at his tear stained cheeks as he awkwardly glanced away.

“No worries,” you said softly, cupping the back of his head and tangling your fingers in the hairs of his nape. He pulled back and gave you a shaky smile, blinking away the tears as he straightened his spine. “Better?” He nodded. “I hope so. I had to use a goddamned _chess_ metaphor, eugh,” you joked, attempting to lighten the mood.

He snorted, staring at you with _something_ in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said somberly, eyes red and puffy as he gave you a small smile, “I...I needed that.”

“Anytime,” you grinned back, “music?” He nodded again, and you leapt off the hood and ducked inside the car. Playing the song you knew he needed to hear.

_I, I will be king_

_And you, you will be queen_

_Though nothing will drive them away_

_We can beat them, just for one day_

_We can be heroes, just for one day_

“Heroes, by David Bowie,” you explained, jumping back up onto the hood and sitting down beside him. The car door thrown open as music danced through the air, dipping and weaving with the cool breeze. You turned to him and smiled, leaning back against the windshield as you let the music wash over you, “one of my favorites.”

_And you, you can be mean_

_And I, I'll drink all the time_

_'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact_

_Yes, we're lovers, and that is that_

He smiled softly, relaxing against the windshield as the sun peeked out over the mountaintops. Tears drying on his skin as he closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he listened to the uplifting tune.

“I like it,” he hummed, opening his eyes and turning to look at you, “it’s...hopeful.”

You grinned at his admission, moving closer to his side as you gushed, “this song makes me so inexplicably happy, I don’t know if I can explain it.”

_Though nothing will keep us together_

_We could steal time, just for one day_

_We can be heroes, forever and ever_

_What d'you say?_

“There’s something so... _relatable_ , about it,” you said carefully, gazing out over the mountains as you struggled to voice your thoughts, “about wishing for a life better than your own. About wanting to find happiness and love despite your own shortcomings.”

_I, I wish you could swim_

_Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim_

“Wanting nothing more than a simple life without restraints and restrictions. Wanting... _freedom.”_

He nodded at that. He could understand those desires better than anyone.

_Though nothing, nothing will keep us together_

_We can beat them, forever and ever_

_Oh, we can be heroes, just for one day_

“To defy the odds, just for one day.”

_I, I will be king_

_And you, you will be queen_

_Though nothing will drive them away_

_We can be heroes, just for one day_

_We can be us, just for one day_

“Who cares if there’s some deeper meaning to the song? I’ll take it as it is. We can be heroes, we can be good. _You_ can be good,” you turned to him and smiled, suddenly aware of how close the two of you were. You were pressed together shoulder to shoulder, a continuous line of heat between your bodies as you leaned into his side. “You already _are_ good”

_I, I can remember (I remember)_

_Standing, by the wall (By the wall)_

_And the guns shot above our heads (Over our heads)_

_And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (Nothing could fall)_

He looked at you with that _something_ in his eyes again, a watery smile spreading across his tear streaked face.

“Don’t cry again, you big lug,” you pouted, nudging his arm and resting your head atop his shoulder, “I might cry too.”

_And the shame was on the other side_

_Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever_

_Then we could be heroes, just for one day_

_We can be heroes_

_We can be heroes_

_We can be heroes, just for one day_

_We can be heroes_

Tentatively, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders; a barely there pressure that gradually pressed down and relaxed. You melted against him, resting your hand atop his as it curled over your chest.

_We're nothing, and nothing will help us_

_Maybe we're lying, then you better not stay_

_But we could be safer, just for one day_

_Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh, just for one day_

“Heroes,” he whispered softly, staring off into the horizon.

“Heroes _,”_ you echoed, burrowing into his warmth, “ _heroes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXgkuM2NhYI)


	14. Don't Fuck With The Corn

You took back every nice thing you said about Wyoming.

It fucking _sucked._

“I spy with my little eye, something…” you trailed off, squinting as you looked out over the endless sea of nothing, “pointy.”

“The barbed wire,” Bucky immediately guessed, driving past the structure in question as he spoke, the gleaming metal standing out against the bland backdrop.

“Wow, how’d you guess,” you deadpanned, “there’s just _so_ much stuff to look at.” You gestured to the miles and miles of flat dirt, a few sprigs of grass and the occasional rusted fence breaking up the tedium. At least with Nevada you knew what you were getting into. Wyoming, on the other hand, had risen your expectations and then proceeded to dive under the bar. Typical.

“I have my ways,” he answered conspiratorially, waggling his eyebrows and making you giggle. “Okay, I spy with my little eye, something...” he scanned over the horizon, searching for something worth mentioning, “brown.”

“You fucking bastard,” you grumbled, glaring at him without heat, “ _everything_ is brown.”

“Start guessing,” he smirked, ignoring your angry mumbling as you stared out the window, narrowing your eyes as you combed over the shapeless scenery. 

“Is it...the dirt?”

“No.”

“Uh, your hair?” you hazarded, huffing and puffing angrily as he shook his head no. “God, I don’t know...that dead bush?” You pointed to the scraggly collection of branches as you passed by, turning to Bucky as you hopefully awaited his answer.

He grinned smugly, “nope.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” you groaned, crossing your arms over your chest as you pouted, “can’t I get a hint or something?”

“One more guess, doll,” he taunted, enjoying how you grew flustered from his teasing, “then I might just tell ya.”

“You’re abusing your power,” you complained, setting your jaw as you scowled playfully at him, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Just one guess,” he hummed, raising a brow and sending you a patronizing look, “it can’t be _that_ hard.”

“I hate you,” you groused, a playful lilt to your tone that helped put him at ease. It was good to know that you weren’t being serious, that you didn’t despise him like ~~_you should_ ~~ he thought you did. It was reassuring, to know that you could play around with him, that you weren’t afraid to joke at his own expense. It made him feel...human. Not a weapon, not made of glass. _Human._ “Maybe...the road?”

He gave you a congratulatory look, cruelly raising your hopes before shaking his head no. 

“ _Motherfu--”_

“Give up?” he asked, your indignant glare answer enough, “thought so.” He sent you a smug grin, sitting back to watch the show, “it was the seats.”

“You--” you glanced down, narrowing your eyes at the tanned leather you were sitting on, “that’s _beige!”_

“It counts,” he shrugged, smirking evilly as smoke practically streamed from your ears.

“It most certainly does _not!”_ You squawked, firmly pressing your index finger into the upholstery, “I _refuse_ to believe this is brown.”

“Aren’t you an artist?”

“Yeah, so that means I have the final say,” you harrumphed, puffing out your chest like a pleased sparrow, “and on my authority, I have officially decided to revoke your win.”

“That’s not fair!”

“I’m sorry, are _you_ the artist?” you taunted, eyes shining with mischief as he sent you an unimpressed look, “mm-hm, thought so.”

“You’re a sore loser.”

“I am _not_ a sore loser,” you objected, turning up your nose snootily, “I’m just a smart winner _.”_ He rolled his eyes and you quickly broke character, doubling over with wheezing laughter and clutching at your stomach. “Okay, fine. You win,” you chuckled, sitting back up and looking around for something to choose, “I spy with my little eye, something...blue.” He immediately began to rattle off everything he saw, barely giving you enough time to think, let alone answer.

“The sky.”

You shook your head no.

“The books.”

No again.

“The comics.”

No.

“Alright, doll, I give up. What is it?”

You smiled softly, looking at him in such a way that he self-consciously tucked his hair behind his ear; a light, barely there blush dusting his cheeks. You looked him in the eye, lips quirking upwards as you quietly spoke.

“Your eyes.”

* * * *

“ _Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…”_

“...”

_“Take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety-eight bottles of--”_

“Y/N.”

“Sorry, Ken.”

“Thank you.”

“...”

“...”

“ _Ninety-nine bottles of vodka on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of vodka--”_

_“Y/N.”_

“What? Not a vodka guy?”

“Eh, I like whisky more.”

“Huh.”

“...”

“... _Ninety-nine bottles of whisky on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of whisky. Take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of whisky on the wall...”_

_* * * *_

The shift from Wyoming to Nebraska wasn’t obvious, but it was a shift nonetheless. Flat ground transitioning to slow, rolling hills. Dry, colorless brush growing out into thick mats of grass.

And, apparently, a shit ton of corn. Who would’ve guessed? Certainly not you.

“Kinda scared right now,” you mused, nervously biting your nails as you stared at the surrounding fields of corn, the stalks looming over you like a solid brick wall, “what if there’s a corn monster, or something?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bucky huffed, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the steering wheel, just in case.

“I’m serious! We’re talking some _Children of the Corn_ shit, _Scary Stories To Tell in The Dark._ Hell, even _The Wizard Of Oz.”_ He snorted amusedly. “You laugh now, but you won’t be laughing when the scarecrow steals your brains,” you wiggled your fingers creepily, eyebrows raised as you made a ghostly ‘oooh’ sound.

He chuckled and shook his head, the two of you lapsing into comfortable silence; the joking atmosphere fading away only to be replaced by existential dread. Nothing like a creepy cornfield to make you question your very existence.

“Music?” you offered, desperate to fill the uneasy silence. He nodded his assent, and you slipped in a disc. A wide smile spreading across your face as the familiar chords began to play, the crooning voice of Kurt Cobain playing over the radio.

_Load up on guns, bring your friends_

_It's fun to lose and to pretend_

_She's over-bored and self-assured_

_Oh no, I know a dirty word_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello_

“ _Smells Like Teen Spirit,_ by Nirvana,” you explained to him, cranking up the volume to drown out the whistling wind outside, “an alt-rock group from the nineties.”

“Huh,” he hummed, unconsciously tapping his fingers to the beat, “I think I like it.”

_With the lights out, it's less dangerous_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_I feel stupid and contagious_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_A mulatto, an albino_

_A mosquito, my libido_

_Yeah, hey, yay_

“Thank god,” you sighed, “this song _defined_ my teenage years. Although young me was crushed after discovering what the lyrics really meant.”

He canted his head to the side and looked at you, silently encouraging you to continue.

_I'm worse at what I do best_

_And for this gift, I feel blessed_

_Our little group has always been_

_And always will until the end_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello_

“Okay, picture this,” you began, setting the scene, “stereotypical angsty teen with authority issues wants to rebel. She finds a song that she _believes_ is calling for a revolution, and jams the _fuck_ out. Annoying the shit out of everyone around her.”

_With the lights out, it's less dangerous_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_I feel stupid and contagious_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_A mulatto, an Albino_

_A mosquito, my libido_

_Yeah, hey, yay_

The iconic guitar solo began to play, the simple riff echoing throughout the confines of the car, the chords chasing away the underlying current of terror.

“Then, much to her devastation, it turns out the song is _mocking_ the idea of a revolution. A mish-mash of contradictory ideas and words,” you elaborated, nodding along to the music regardless.

_And I forget just why I taste_

_Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile_

_I found it hard, it's hard to find_

_Oh well, whatever, nevermind_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello_

_“_ But honestly, that’s what made Nirvana so great. A sort of self awareness that they turned into amazing art,” you smiled. “Besides, this song will always be that to me. A call for revolution.”

_With the lights out, it's less dangerous_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_I feel stupid and contagious_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_A mulatto, an albino_

_A mosquito, my libido_

_A denial, a denial, a denial, a denial, a denial_

_A denial, a denial, a denial, a denial_

The song faded out with one last triumphant chord, and the next song ( _Drain You)_ started up on the radio. Flooding the car with the gravelly drawl of Cobain’s voice.

Bucky turned to the side and gave you a careful look, “you’ve put an awful lot of thought into that song.”

You snorted, “gotta do _something_ to pass the time.” You turned and stared out the window, gaze skipping over the wall of looming stalks, “might as well analyze my entire childhood.” 

You looked out over the endless sea of corn, a single grassy hill rising from the ocean like an island. A feathery willow tree stood gracefully atop the mound, waxy flowers generously peppered around the spindly trunk. 

“Pull over, please!” you requested, eagerly bouncing in your seat as you stared at the little island, fear forgotten as you itched to sit amongst the flowers.

Ignorant of your plan, Bucky obliged; slowing to a stop and pulling up right next to the wall of corn. You grabbed your sketchbook and hopped out of the car, carefully mapping your path as you peered through the thick forest of stalks.

“Y/N…” Bucky said warningly, slowly beginning to catch on.

You sent him a dazzling grin. “Who’s gonna catch me first? The corn monster...” You took half a step forward, a manic glint shining in your eyes, “or you?”

And then--ignoring any sense of self preservation--you plunged into the forest of corn. Laughing maniacally as you heard Bucky’s annoyed shout echo behind you.

_Let the games begin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, don't fuck with the corn.
> 
> Funny story, I asked my dad about his road trip to Wyoming so I could know what it looked like. And apparently, he had been witness to a stabbing. Huh.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTWKbfoikeg)


	15. Forget-Me-Not

Admittedly, playing cat and mouse with a trained assassin wasn’t the best idea you’d ever had. (Seconded only by your decision to attack said assassin with a Hello Kitty baseball bat).

But boy, was it  _ fun. _

Hiccuping giggles echoed in your wake as you ran, ducking and weaving between the corn stalks as you navigated your way to the middle. Leaves whipping at your face as you crashed recklessly through the crops. He was going easy on you--you’d be lying to yourself if you said otherwise--yet there was an undeniable thrill that ran through you as you darted across the field. A heady adrenaline rush that pumped through your veins in a chemical cocktail of endorphins.

Your feet pounded against the dirt as you ran, arms pumping and chest heaving with labored breaths that made your lungs burn. Heart thudding in a steady rhythm as the wind whistled by your ears. The cornstalks gradually thinned out to reveal the idealistic hill you’d been aiming for, the perfumed scent of the flowers drifting in the breeze as you grew closer and closer. You sprinted up the incline and threw your arms up in the air, whooping celebratorily as you curled up beneath the bowed branches of the willow tree; resting your back against its weather-beaten trunk.

“Aha! Victory!” You cheered, pumping your fist in the air as you flipped open your sketchbook. Suddenly hit with the realization that you forgot your pencil,  _ again,  _ “well, fuck.”

“Looking for this?” Bucky spoke from beside you, the sudden timbre of his voice making you jump. He held out his hand and dropped a pencil into your palm, rolling his eyes fondly as you sputtered, “figured you’d forget. Again.”

“Dick,” you mumbled, begrudgingly closing your fingers around the wood. You turned and looked out over the horizon, contentment humming in your chest as you settled into the tranquility, “I think it was worth the run.”

He sat down on your left, drawing his legs close and discretely keeping watch. “I guess so,” he acquiesced, gaze sweeping over the strangely gorgeous scenery, “can’t stay for long, though.”

“I know,” you sighed, looking down at your sketchbook and smoothing the page with your thumb, “sorry for the, uh, disappearing act there.”

“Like you said,” he shrugged, distractedly skimming his fingers over the grass,“it was worth it.”

You gave him a soft smile, turning the page of your sketchbook and staring at your abandoned drawing of the Rockies. Pressing your pencil to the paper and carefully shading the sharp curve of the mountaintop. Your tongue poked out from between your teeth, unconsciously sweeping over your lower lip as you dragged your pencil across the page.

“Y’know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” you began tentatively, eyes glued to the page as you swirled your pencil in random patterns, “if you...if you don’t like mountains, then what landscapes  _ do  _ you like?”

He swallowed tightly, working his jaw as he mulled over your question, fists clenched unconsciously by his sides. You opened your mouth to apologize, but were interrupted by the quiet hum of his voice, “lakes, I think.”

You nodded, pursing your lips as you turned to a blank page in your sketchbook, gently feathering your pencil across the paper. Swoops and swirls that formed delicate ripples across the page, soft refractions of light created from the graphite smudges; artful curves and arches that merged together to form the image in your mind’s eye. It was unbelievably rough, messy edges and sketchy lines that formed the sloppy curve of a shape. But it was enough to get your point across.

Satisfied, you tucked the pencil behind your ear and turned your sketchbook towards Bucky, sweeping your hand over the page to help draw his attention, “boom.”

His jaw dropped, carefully taking the drawing in hand as he stared dumbstruck at the page. His eyes flicked up to you and back down to the paper, fingers tracing over what was unmistakably the bank of a lake.

“How?” He whispered disbelievingly, looking up at you with childlike wonder in his eyes, “how did you draw this so  _ quickly?” _

“Sold my soul to the college board,” you deadpanned, wincing slightly as you recalled your student loans.  _ (Y’know, now that you were missing...maybe you didn’t have to pay them. A girl could dream). _

“I’d never be able to do this...not anymore, at least,” he sighed, suddenly somber. 

Your lips twisted into a frown, propping your chin up on your hand as you sent him a thoughtful look, “and why not?”

He was silent, mulling over what you’d just said with an unreadable expression on his face. You reached forward and turned to a blank page, slipping the pencil out from behind your ear and pressing it into his hand.

“Draw something,” you said softly, glancing up at him from beneath your eyelashes, “prove yourself wrong.”

“I’ll ruin your sketchbook.”

You grinned, “then ruin it.”

That seemed to convince him.

He hovered the pencil over the page and tentatively pressed the sharpened point to the paper, drawing a straight, dark line that stuck out from the white. He turned to you--intimidated by the daunting amount of empty space before him--an ashamed expression etched into his features as he regarded his ‘failed’ drawing attempt.

“Go on,” you smiled genuinely, gesturing for him to continue with an encouraging flick of your wrist. Emboldened by your reassurance, he put pencil to paper once again and began to sketch. Eyes glancing up to meet yours before returning to the page, unconsciously tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. 

With nothing else left to do, you sprawled out on your stomach and picked at the grass, reaching forward and tracing your fingers over the waxy petals of the flowers. They were a light, sky blue, with hints of purple spiraling towards the egg yolk center. Forget-me-nots, the ironically unforgettable flower dotted all over the little hill.

You reached forward and plucked the flower from its stem, twirling it between your fingers and watching the rounded petals flutter like butterfly wings. Carefully, you tucked the blossom behind your ear, feeling a spark of youthful nostalgia ignite in your belly. You turned your head and smiled as you spotted a small bush of off-white gardenias, seashell petals spiralling from their elegant, pearly centers. You gently clipped a velvet blossom from the bush, adding the bud to the small bouquet perched above your ear. Breathing in the soft, delicate scent of perfume that drifted into your nose. Fragrant and enticing.

You dug your elbows into the ground and propped your chin up on your hands, tilting your head to the side as you quietly watched Bucky draw. There was something so intimate about the whole affair, passively observing the way his brow creased and nose scrunched as he sketched. How the corner of his eyes crinkled like newspaper as he distractedly chewed his lower lip. It was rather...endearing. Adorable, even.

His eyes locked onto yours, and you quickly glanced away. An embarrassed flush heating your cheeks as if you were some lovesick schoolgirl. You ripped another flower from the earth, bringing the silky bud to your nose and inhaling the delectably fragrant scent. As if on autopilot, you plucked another flower from the soil, and then another, and another. Soon enough, you had a sizable pile of gardenias and forget-me-nots, the fragile petals crushed beneath their own weight. With the ease of years of practice, you grabbed two of the flowers and weaved the stems together, picking another from the pile and tying the stem around the knot.

It was easy to slip into the mindless pattern, fingers ducking and weaving as you spun a crown of petals and leaves. The aqua blue of the forget-me-nots beautifully contrasting the stark white of the gardenias. It was soothing work, the dying light of the sun warming your labor-stiff fingers, the golden glow shining through the thin, translucent petals. And with one last loop and tuck, you finally bore the fruit of your labors; the gorgeous flower crown spilling over your pollen dusted fingers.

You sat up on your knees and crawled over to Bucky, draping the loop over his head with the dramatic extravagance of a genuine crowning. Brushing the waxy petals away from his eyes and carefully pulling his hair back, the crown of flowers standing tall amongst the dark, chestnut locks. You cast a quick glance over his shoulder, lips cracking into a wide smile as you saw just what he was drawing.

“Is that...me?” you wondered, throat closing with emotion as you stared at the page. He gave you a self conscious nod, brushing his hair back as he turned the sketchbook towards you. “Oh my god, that’s  _ amazing.” _

It was you all right, your likeness translated perfectly onto paper. There was a soft, contemplative look on your face, staring consideringly at the feathery gardenia clutched between your thumb and pointer finger. A dainty forget-me-not was tucked behind your ear, the warm evening light glancing off of the delicate petals. You were... _ gorgeous _ . Was that what you actually looked like?

“You really should be an artist,” you gushed, reaching out and taking the sketchbook in hand, settling down beside him and accidentally brushing your arm against his.

“Mhm,” he hummed noncommittally, a pink, barely-there flush dusting his cheeks. He tucked a stray hair behind his ear, fingers mistakenly brushing over the folded petals resting on his temple. He glanced up and the flush deepened, running his hand over the woven loop of flowers nestled in his hair, “flowers, huh?”

“Yep!” you chirped, plucking the pencil from his hand and pressing it to a blank sheet of paper, “and I’m going to commemorate this glorious moment, with a beautiful work of  _ art _ .” He snorted and rolled his eyes, lifting his chin and posing ever so slightly as you began to sketch. Your pencil danced gracefully across the page, struggling to capture the curve of his jaw and the arch of his brow, the pouty lips and the perfectly clefted chin. Quick, short strokes that hardly did him justice; failing to capture the enigma that was Bucky goddamn Barnes. 

There was something that your professor used to say, a stupid phrase that he beat into your skull at the end of every lecture. What was it again? Ah, yes: “You never truly  _ know  _ someone, until you draw them.”

Well, now you had to find him and punch him in his dumb, smug face.

‘Cause that fucker was  _ right. _

You were seeing Bucky in a whole new light, features that you hadn’t even noticed suddenly drawing your undivided attention. His stubbled jaw, the taut skin over his adam’s apple, the sharp curve of his cupid’s bow.

And his  _ eyes. _

_ Fuck. _

You hated those sappy, Shakespearean writers who’d wax poetic over their lover’s eyes. Scores of unbelievable analogies that made no logical sense whatsoever. Comparing them to, like, the moon or some stupid shit. 

But once again, they were fucking  _ right. _

His eyes were a gorgeous, steely blue. Like a blade right after it was tempered, the ocean rising on the swell of a thunderstorm, flint glinting in the light of the full moon. And a thousand other comparisons that you couldn’t even begin to name. They were oddly compelling as well. Weighted and haunted, yes; but with a hopeful note that you doubted even he knew about.

And that’s what made him so beautiful.

(You knew that he was attractive, had known since he was still trying to kill you.

But this...this was different).

And with a final dramatic flourish, you were finished. Carefully thatching the edge of the petals to add some much-needed depth to the piece. With a nervousness you were wholly unaccustomed to, you turned the page towards Bucky. Awaiting his feedback with bated breath.

“Wow,” he said breathlessly, at a loss for words, “I just... _ wow.” _

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked worriedly, anxiety gnawing at your stomach as you watched his expression shift.

“No!” He objected, startling you with his intensely heartfelt tone, “no, you didn’t.”

The two of you lapsed into weighted silence, staring at one another as you waited for...something. His gaze flicked down to your lips(?) before quickly returning to your eyes, the movement so fast you were half-certain you’d imagined it.

“We should...we should go,” he said quietly, hot breath fanning over your cheek. (When had you gotten so  _ close?) _

“Yeah,” you breathed, standing shakily to your feet and tucking the sketchbook under your arm. Bucky stood up beside you, almost deliberately keeping some distance between the two of you as he scanned over the cornfields. He reached up and lifted the crown from his head, staring sadly at the flowers as he ran his fingers over the tightly woven stems.

“I think I have to leave this,” he said reluctantly, eyes shining guiltily as he stroked the feathery petals for the last time.

“It was fun while it lasted,” you shrugged, reaching up to touch the flowers tucked behind your ear, “c’mon, let’s go.”

“Yeah…” he said quietly, an unreadable expression on his face; a flash of  _ something  _ in his eyes, “let’s go.”

* * * *

There is a willow tree in Nebraska with a flower crown hanging from its branches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that some tension I see?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


	16. All That Glitters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Past child abuse, nightmares

You never thought you’d be happy to drive through  _ Iowa  _ of all places. But days upon days of nothing but desert had gotten to you, and any variety was good variety; no matter how small. Besides, grass trumped sand any day of the week; and you much prefered the endless expanse of green to beige.

You reached your hand into a family sized bag of Doritos and grabbed a handful, shoving the chips into your mouth and shamelessly licking off your cheesy fingers. Humming happily even as Bucky sent you a disgusted look.

You met his judging gaze without shame, “I’m  _ hungry.” _

He raised a mocking brow, and before you could even blink, his arm darted forward and dove into the bag. Snatching a heaping handful of chips and ducking safely out of reach, tossing the snacks into his mouth with an evil grin pulling at his lips.

“You sneaky  _ bastard,”  _ you hissed, scowling as his tongue darted out to wet his cheese dusted lips, “how  _ dare  _ you.” A crooked smirk spread across his face, growing wider as he reached across the console and wiped his grimy fingers off on your sleeve, “ _ noo!” _

“What?” he grinned, “I’m  _ hungry.”  _ You pouted, grabbing a Dorito from the bag and throwing it at him like a shuriken. Laughing gleefully as it bounced off of his forehead and fell into his lap. “Aw, that was mean, doll,” he complained jokingly, picking up the discarded chip and popping it into his mouth.

“ _ Eww,” _ you gagged, scrunching up your nose in disgust, “only  _ I’m _ allowed to do that.”

“Next time a chip falls on me, you can have it,” he said with a wink.

“That’s not what I meant…” you muttered, eyes downcast as his suggestive tone brought a hot flush to your cheeks. You quickly willed away the blush, shaking your head to clear it of...something. “Music?” you asked, wanting to distract him from your...reaction. He nodded, and you grabbed your sister’s disc and slid it into the slot, skipping forward and pressing play.

_ Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me _

_ I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed _

_ She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb _

_ In the shape of an "L" on her forehead _

“ _ All Star _ , by Smash Mouth,” you explained, grateful for the distracting beat of the song, “god’s gift to mankind.”

He raised a disbelieving brow, and you met his stare unblinkingly, eyelids twitching as you fought to remain serious. Your shaky composure broke almost immediately, hiccuping giggles spilling from your lips as you hunched over laughing.

“Nah, but it’s pretty damn close,” you chuckled.

_ Well, the years start coming and they don't stop coming _

_ Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running _

_ Didn't make sense not to live for fun _

_ Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb _

_ So much to do, so much to see _

_ So what's wrong with taking the backstreets? _

_ You'll never know if you don't go _

_ You'll never shine if you don't glow _

“God, my sister loved this song,” you sighed, a pang of sadness running through you as you reminisced, “she made me watch Shrek, like, a million times.”

“Shrek?”

_ Hey now, you're an all star _

_ Get your game on, go play _

_ Hey now, you're a rock star _

_ Get the show on, get paid _

_ And all that glitters is gold _

_ Only shooting stars break the mold _

“Oh my god,” you gasped, a thousand possibilities running through your mind, “first chance we get, we’re watching Shrek together.”

“ _ What is Shrek? _ ” he asked again, completely out of the loop.

“It’s an animated film,” you clarified, gesturing wildly as you launched into an explanation, “basically there’s an ogre named Shrek who lives in a swamp, but then that swamp is overrun by a bunch of fairytale creatures. Oh, I forgot to mention, it’s kinda like a mock Disney movie. You know what Disney is, right?” 

He nodded. 

“Okay, good. Anyways, he finds out that they were all kicked out of a kingdom called Duloc by this dude Lord Farquaad. So he and a talking Donkey go there, and then they have to save a princess so she can marry Farquaad.

So they do that, but then Princess Fiona (that’s her name) falls in love with Shrek. But there’s a weird misunderstanding, and Fiona goes to marry Farquaad. But then Shrek wins her back and Farquaad gets eaten by a dragon.”

Silence.

“Oh! By the way, she turns into an ogre at night.”

_ “What.” _

_ It's a cool place, and they say it gets colder _

_ You're bundled up now, wait 'til you get older _

_ But the meteor men beg to differ _

_ Judging by the hole in the satellite picture _

_ The ice we skate is getting pretty thin _

_ The water's getting warm so you might as well swim _

_ My world's on fire, how 'bout yours? _

_ That's the way I like it and I'll never get bored _

He blinked at you, thrown off by your confusing, long winded explanation. Cogs visibly turning in his head as he tried to piece together your choppy recounting of the tale.

You shrugged sheepishly, “it’ll make sense once you watch it.” 

He opened his mouth to say something—probably along the lines of, “ _ what the fuck, Y/N”  _ or  _ “why is there a dragon”— _ but was rudely interrupted by you throwing your head back and bursting into song.

_ “Hey now, you're an all star _

_ Get your game on, go play _

_ Hey now, you're a rock star _

_ Get the show on, get paid _

_ All that glitters is gold _

_ Only shooting stars break the mold” _

He stared at you in shock, the startled expression on his face making you laugh. You opened your mouth again, the lyrics bursting from your chest like fireworks

_ “Hey now, you're an all star _

_ Get your game on, go play _

_ Hey now, you're a rock star _

_ Get the show on, get paid _

_ And all that glitters is gold _

_ Only shooting stars” _

You bobbed along to the music, grabbing another handful of chips and shoving it into your mouth. Mouthing along to the lyrics and almost choking on your next breath. Bucky slapped your back, sending you into a violent coughing fit that expelled the chip from your throat.

“Try not to choke to death,” he teased, retracting his hand and returning it to the wheel.

_ Somebody once asked _

_ Could I spare some change for gas? _

_ "I need to get myself away from this place" _

_ I said, "Yep, what a concept _

_ I could use a little fuel myself _

_ And we could all use a little change" _

“Aw, Bucko, have some  _ fun.  _ Sing along or something,” you joked, brushing off your grubby fingers on your jeans.

_ Well, the years start coming and they don't stop coming _

_ Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running _

_ Didn't make sense not to live for fun _

_ Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb _

_ So much to do, so much to see _

_ So what's wrong with taking the backstreets? _

_ You'll never know if you don't go (Go!) _

_ You'll never shine if you don't glow _

“Maybe I will,” he said determinedly, turning his head and watching as a manic smile spread across your face.

“Karaoke, let’s go!” you cheered, the both of you beginning to sing (albeit with Bucky starting a bit tentatively).

_ “Hey now, you're an all star _

_ Get your game on, go play _

_ Hey now, you're a rock star _

_ Get the show on, get paid _

_ And all that glitters is gold _

_ Only shooting stars break the mold _

_ And all that glitters is gold _

_ Only shooting stars break the mold” _

You let out a celebratory whoop, punching your fist in the air and accidentally spilling some chips on your lap.

“Shit!” you cursed, glancing up and giving Bucky a sultry look, “y’know, if you want some more chips…”

“ _ Y/N.” _

“Fine, more for me then.”

* * * *

“Hey, Bucky, why’re you checking the trunk again?”

“Gotta make sure we’re not running low on supplies, can’t have a repeat of last time.”

“Huh, so do we need anything?”

“No...actually, a new lighter wouldn’t hurt.”

“Got it, I’ll be on the lookout.”

* * * *

“I can’t believe it, an  _ actual _ shower. I must be dreaming,” you marvelled, wandering further into the motel room the two of you had rented.

You’d both agreed (oh, who were you kidding. You’d harassed Bucky until he caved) that after over a week of ‘roughing’ it, you needed some actual rest. So, you’d checked into the least seedy motel you could find, and decided to stay the night.

And it was the best decision of your  _ life. _

A real bed, a real couch, and real, actual  _ plumbing _ . Things that you’d never take for granted  _ ever  _ again.

“Shame about those comics, though,” you commented, looking over the small kitchenette with a keen eye. You’d paid off the clerk—a bearded, portly man with squinty eyes—with the box of Captain America comics. He was an okay guy, a little eccentric, but overall completely harmless. (Although he had gotten a little creepy with the blatant staring.  _ Men _ ).

“They sucked anyway,” he said dismissively, his bluntness making you laugh. You spun on your heel, taking in the rest of the room with wide, curious eyes. It was small, cozy. A couch and a boxy TV sitting in the corner, a stout refrigerator and folding table situated in the other. A small hall led into the—singular—bedroom, with the bathroom door sat directly across from it. The window was framed by thick, moth eaten drapes. Drapes that Bucky immediately drew closed, not a single ray of light peeking through.

“Dibs on first shower!” you called over your shoulder, ducking inside the bathroom before he could protest. You turned on the spray and pulled the raggedy curtain aside, peeling off your bandages and quickly hopping in. Nearly groaning in delight as warm water hit your skin. 

You grabbed one of the complimentary soaps from the ledge, rubbing the scentless bar over your skin and wincing as the water turned grimy. Scrubbing until your skin was raw and irritated, completely cleansed of a week's worth of dirt. You squirted shampoo into your palm, working it up into a lather and rubbing it into your scalp, grimacing as you felt the greasy strands beneath your fingertips.

You quickly went through the motions, making sure not to waste any of the warm water. Turning off the tap and reaching out to grab a—

Shit.

“Bucky!” you called, wrapping your arms around yourself and shivering, “there’s no towels!”

You waited a beat.

“Can you get me one, please?” You tried again, praying to every higher power that he would come through.

You heard the hinges creak, the soft pad of shoes against tile, and then a hand was thrust behind the curtain; fluffy towel clutched between callused fingertips.

“Here,” Bucky said gruffly, jerking his hand forward and nearly brushing your naked breast.

“Careful!” You squeaked, snatching the towel and wrapping it snugly around you, “thanks.” You stepped out from behind the curtain, shaking your head like a wet dog and spraying water everywhere. And by extension, all over Bucky.

“Some thanks I get,” he snorted, very deliberately keeping his eyes above the dip of your collarbone.

“I could drop the towel, if you want,” you leered, waggling your eyebrows salaciously. He awkwardly cleared his throat, and you laughed, smirking as he made no move to leave, “so, are you gonna…”

“Oh, yeah,” he stumbled over his words, backing out of the room and sheepishly closing the door behind him. You swallowed down another giggle, drying yourself off and pulling on some clean clothes. Peering into the bathroom mirror and examining your reflection, poking at your stitches and debating whether or not to reapply the gauze. Certain that you were fine, you tossed the towel over the hook and pranced out of the room, feeling more refreshed than you had in days.

Bucky was in the kitchen, sitting on one of the metal chairs and completely dwarfing it with his size. It was, quite frankly, hilarious. And you had to suppress another round of giggling with an awkward cough.

“So, what’s the sitch?” you asked, sliding into the chair across from him, “or am I free to relax and watch TV?”

He tucked an unruly strand of hair behind his ear, looking at you with an unreadable expression on his face, “well, there’s just...there’s only one bed.”

_ (What kind of cliched ass bullshit—) _

“Okay, I’ll take the couch then,” you shrugged.

“No, I’ll—”

“Oh, don’t give me that macho ‘gotta give it to the lady’ crap,” you groused, crossing your arms determinedly over your chest, “you’ve been driving the whole way here, you deserve the bed.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but then he just  _ deflated.  _ Defeat and exhaustion oozing from his pores.

You gave him a small smile, reaching across the table and giving his shoulder a soft squeeze, “go take a shower, I’ll get the bed ready.”

He smiled warmly, eyes glowing in the dim light like silver catching the sun, “thank you.”

Your smile mirrored his own, “anytime.”

* * * *

God, you regretted taking the couch.

Mind you, you didn’t regret actually  _ giving _ the bed to Bucky, you just wished the couch was a better alternative. It was lumpy, and musty, and smelt like burnt hair and cigarettes. Not a very pleasant combination, not a very pleasant  _ memory _ .

( _ “Mom, if you don’t stop smoking around Scrappy I swear to god—” _

_ “Don’t you  _ dare  _ talk to your mother that way, you ungrateful  _ brat _.” _

_ “Ow!” _

_ “Oh, sweetheart, you know I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again. Please don’t tell your father, he’ll take you away from me and then I’ll...I’ll…” _

_ “It’s...it’s okay, Mom. _

_ I forgive you.”) _

You pulled the thin blanket over your shoulders, squeezing your eyes shut until your eyelids ached from the strain. The pain distracting you from memories you wished to forget. You rolled over onto your back, staring up at the pockmarked ceiling and smiling to yourself when you found the Little Dipper amongst the indents.

“Always looking out for me. Huh, Scrapadoodle?” you whispered, throat scratchy from dehydration (definitely not because you were about to cry). You pressed your palms into your sockets, pressing until you saw kaleidoscopes spiral behind your eyelids. Blinking away the burn and dragging your hands down your face.

You let out a heavy sigh, your brooding interrupted by a loud  _ crash _ and  _ thump  _ from inside the bedroom. You shot up and rolled off of the couch, stumbling over to the bedroom door and freezing right before you barged in.

“Bucky,” you whispered, leaning against the closed door and pressing your ear to the wood, as if that would actually help, “you okay?”

No answer, but the quiet whimpering and the desperate pleas clued you in as to what was happening.

_ Nightmare. _

You slid down to the floor, pressing your forehead to the wood as if you could phase right through. But you couldn’t; not just for your sake, but for his. He could hurt you, and if he did, there weren’t enough heart-to-hearts in the world for him to forgive himself.

So, you stood sentry, resting your back against the door and listening helplessly as his suffering grew louder and louder. Clenching your fists as you fought back the urge to rush in and wake him up, no matter how disastrous that would be for the both of you. Heart aching as his pleading grew to audible levels:

“Please don’t.”

“No, no don’t hurt them…”

“Steve...not Steve, no....”

Time passed by in a meaningless blur. How long had it been? Seconds, minutes, maybe even hours? It seemed forever before he settled, before his frenzied thrashing drew to a close. Still as a grave; quiet as one, too.

The door you were leaning against suddenly opened, and you flailed. Falling back against Bucky as he stood stock still in the doorway. You glanced up and felt your stomach twist in pity, noticing his drawn expression and the heavy bags under his sunken eyes.

“Hey,” you whispered, giving him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. He blinked at you slowly, still stuck in that fugue state between sleep and wakefulness, “you’re okay, you’re awake.”

He didn’t move, staring at with such naked vulnerability that it made your heart hurt. You rose to your feet and tentatively held your hands out, silently asking for permission to touch.

He nodded, and you crashed into each other like waves breaking on the shore.

“Shh, I got you,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around him and tucking his head into the crook of your neck, “I got you.” He choked back a sob and held you tighter, stumbling over his feet as you walked him back into the bedroom, sitting you both down on the mattress.

You stayed there for a moment, just breathing each other in; leeching comfort from one another like a hot spring, or a warm cup of tea. You carefully ran your fingers through his hair, whispering soothing nonsense that you couldn’t make heads or tails of, but seemed to help nonetheless. Lips brushing his temple as you pressed quick— _ totally platonic _ —kisses to the skin there, holding him close to your chest as you rocked back and forth.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you breathed, feeling him shake his head against you, “okay. I’m here for you, you know that?” He nodded haltingly, fingers digging into your back as he clutched you to him, “then know that you can always talk to me, no matter what.”

He took in a deep breath, releasing it on a strangled sob, “I promised him, I  _ promised _ him that I’d—that I’d always  _ be  _ there. ‘Til the end of the line, I said. ‘Til the end of the  _ goddamn  _ line.” Another sob. “And then I fell and he was  _ alone _ and then he  _ died _ and I  _ failed him. _ ” He finished with a gasping, broken cry, slumping forward and wetting your neck with his own tears.

“Oh, James,” you whispered, stroking the curve of his spine as you cupped the back of his skull. Knowing exactly who he was talking about without him having to say a word, “you didn’t fail him. You fell  _ saving  _ him.”

“Fat load of good that did him,” he said weakly, shoulders shaking with giggling sobs.

You pulled away and cupped his face in your hands, tilting his head back and forcing him to look you in the eye, “he knew that you cared, he knew what he was getting into, he  _ knew _ .” You ran your thumb over his cheekbone, feeling the short stubble prickle your skin, “give him the dignity of his choice.”

His face screwed up with emotion, fighting back tears as he sagged in your grip.

“ _ I miss him, _ ” he sobbed, finally breaking down completely.

“I know.”

“No,” he whispered, leaning forward and pressing his face into your shoulder blade, “no, you don’t.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you simply lay back against the mattress and held him to your chest, shushing him gently until he eventually slipped into a light doze.

And within a few minutes, you followed after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_jWHffIx5E)


	17. They Lurk In The Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: fire, explosions, guns

You woke in a tangle of limbs, sprawled atop Bucky with his arms wrapped tightly around your middle; your face buried in the exposed skin of his collarbone. A sleepy groan fell from your lips as you cracked your eyelids open, cursing softly as you felt a painful crick start up in your neck, shifting slightly to help alleviate the pain. His muscles tensed at your movement, eyes slowly blinking open as he stirred awake.

“‘S me,” you slurred tiredly, giving his chest a reassuring pat, “‘s all good.”` He relaxed at your assurance, loosening his grip so that you could roll off of him and sit up. You reached over and gave his flesh hand a squeeze, asking quietly, “you need anything?” 

He shook his head and sat up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he blearily slipped out of bed. “We need to get going,” he said gruffly, voice hoarse from his breakdown the night before. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t want to talk, and you didn’t want to push him, either. So, win-win…?

You nodded in agreement, secretly annoyed that you had to leave so soon. Never before had you wanted to stay in bed so  _ badly _ , but you knew that it was for the best.

Didn’t mean you had to like it, though.

“I’ll pack up,” you offered, swinging your feet off the bed and standing up, throwing a quick glance at him over your shoulder, “let me know when you’re ready.”

He gave you a curt nod, and you ducked out of the room; sweeping through the place and grabbing everything that you’d need. Your old clothes, the complimentary bottles of shampoo, hell, even the little packet of mints that the clerk had randomly given to you. You took them all, gathering them up in your arms and waiting by the door, watching curiously as Bucky covered up your tracks. It was rather impressive, how he wiped every trace of you two completely clean. As if you were never even there to begin with.

And you were gonna keep it that way.

“Hood,” he reminded you, tucking the fabric over your head with a fond, yet exasperated smile on his face, “now, let’s go.” He politely held the door open and led you out, closing it behind him and marching purposefully over to the front desk, dropping the key onto the counter and startling the clerk from his call.

The man jumped at the loud clack of metal against wood, glancing up from his phone with an almost guilty look in his eyes. Shoulders shaking as he held the receiver in his sweaty hands.

“Thanks,” you smiled apologetically, breezing out of the building with Bucky at your side, rushing over to the car and hopping into the passenger’s seat. Lazily dumping the stuff into the backseat and popping a mint into your mouth. “Back on the road,” you sighed, stretching your arms as you worked out your sleep-heavy muscles, yawning widely as Bucky started up the engine.

“Thank you,” he whispered under his breath, voice muffled by the hum of the motor.

“Hm?”

“Thank you, for last night,” he breathed, eyes flicking over to meet yours before returning to his lap.

“No problem,” you smiled, reaching forward and tentatively winding your fingers through his, “talk to me anytime, I’m here for you.”

His breath hitched minutely at your words, squeezing your hand in his before reluctantly letting go. You pulled away and returned your hand to your side, fiddling distractedly with the radio as you willed away the warmth that had taken root in your heart.

* * * *

“Let’s have a group prayer session,” you said nervously, watching as the fuel level dipped lower and lower, “dear Jesus, please let us make it to the next gas station. I can’t be stranded again.”

“Neither can I,” Bucky grunted, a tinge of worry working into his tone. The two of you inched forward on the dark road, the stars watching overhead as you crossed your fingers and prayed, hoping that your car could last another mile or two.

“I thought we had more gas?” you wondered aloud, confused as to how you were so dangerously low.

“I miscalculated,” he answered gruffly, tightening his fingers around the wheel as he glared at the fuel meter, trying to stop the arrow from lowering any further. You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, trying not to burst into hysterical laughter as ABBA played in the background.

_ You are the dancing queen _

_ Young and sweet _

_ Only seventeen _

“Completely appropriate background music,” you deadpanned, “maybe ABBA can give us the strength to--”

And with ingenious comedic timing, the car let out a heaving sigh, and puttered to a stop. 

“Déjà vu,” you breathed, fear tinting your voice as you were left stranded,  _ again. _

“It’s fine,” Bucky said hopefully, trying to rouse your failing spirits, “we’ll figure it out.” He slid out of his seat and stepped outside the car, spinning on his heel as he searched for any sign of civilization, squinting his eyes as he peered at the road stretching out ahead of him. He ducked down and looked you in the eye, pointing at something later down the road, “look!”

You followed his outstretched finger and peered through the windshield, mirroring his grin as you saw exactly what he was pointing at. A real, honest to god gas station. It was only a little ways away, about a mile or so between you and salvation.

“Jesus really is looking out for us,” you joked, hopping out of your seat and rounding over to Bucky, “I’ll go fill up the can, shouldn’t take too long anyways.”

“Are you sure?”

“You said it yourself, I’m less recognizable,” you shrugged, throwing open the trunk and grabbing the empty fuel canister, “besides, I can snag us a lighter real quick, too.”

“All right,” he caved, trailing at your heels as you began to head off, “but be careful!”

“When am I not?” you called back, turning around and walking backwards as you grinned.

“I’m already regretting this,” he sighed, watching you leave with a nervous look in his eyes, “ _ be careful,  _ seriously _.” _

“I’ll be back before you know it!” you reassured, spinning around and heading off down the road, giving him a jaunty wave as you pranced away.

You supposed that you should be scared--what with wandering off alone, in the dark, at night, and did I mention alone?--but it was hard to be afraid when the Little Dipper was sparkling so brightly. And it was nice to finally stretch out your legs, to breathe in fresh air without worrying whether or not you were about to die. It was the simpler things in life that got to you, like not being dead. 

You  _ really _ appreciated that one.

_ “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,”  _ you hummed, skipping on every other step, the canister swinging back and forth in your grip as you gallivanted, “ _ my oh my, what a wonderful day. Plenty of sunshine heading our way,”  _ you clicked your heels together like a happy leprechaun, “ _ zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!” _

The lights of the gas station grew brighter and brighter as you approached, the building coming into focus as you grew closer to its walls. It was your oasis in the desert, your bathroom in an airport, your pretzel shop at the mall.

And you were  _ desperately _ craving some Auntie Anne’s.

_ “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,”  _ you continued, weaving through the rows of gas pumps, “ _ something, something, something...wonderful feeling, feeling this way!”  _ You waltzed through the sliding doors without a care in the world, glancing around the fluorescence washed room and relaxing once you saw its inhabitants.

No one in there seemed even  _ remotely _ dangerous, that little tidbit of information immediately putting your mind at ease. Who was going to attack you? The weasley man at the counter, the hooded man browsing through the snack aisle, or the hungover woman with a jug of Arizona Iced Tea in her hands?

Answer, none of the above.

Gas stations were just like that, sometimes.

You walked up to the cashier and plucked a lighter from the display, placing it on the counter along with an extra box of matches. Fidgeting ever so slightly as you suppressed the urge to buy a family sized bag of Cheetos puffs.

“That’ll be $3.25,” the cashier said boredly, scanning your items and holding out his hand for the cash. You passed him the money and waved off the change, grabbing your spoils and shoving them into your pocket.

“Oh, here,” you tossed a twenty onto the counter, jabbing your thumb to the pumps outside, “I’m gonna get myself some gas.” The man nodded, and you quickly turned on your heel and rushed out the door. The faster you left, the better; no matter how safe you may have felt.

You jogged up to the gas pump and set the canister firmly on the ground, unscrewing the cap and slipping the nozzle into the hole. You tapped a few buttons and held down on the trigger, whistling to yourself as you listened to the hollow  _ glug glug glug  _ of gasoline filling the can.

God, you were bored. Maybe you should’ve let Bucky tag along, if only for some sort of meager entertainment. Although, maybe it was for the best, considering the uneasy feeling that was twisting in your stomach. You’d learned over the years to trust your gut, and if your gut was saying  _ danger,  _ then you probably should believe it. Except there was that one time with your dad where--

_ Holy shit, a gun! _

You dove to the ground in a flurry of movement, letting out a soft  _ meep  _ as a bullet whizzed overhead, just barely missing it’s fleshy target. You rolled and ducked behind the pumps, glancing around the corner and gasping as you saw the once harmless shoppers stream out of the door. They were fully clad in tactical gear; with big, scary looking guns strapped to their sides. And those scary looking guns were pointing at  _ you. _

So either you’d stumbled across an Iowan gang war, or…

_ Hydra. _

“Shit,” you cursed, retreating behind cover as another bullet flew by. Of  _ course _ Hydra had to attack when Bucky wasn’t there.

Oh fuck,  _ Bucky.  _

They knew, right? No doubt about it. They had to know that he was nearby.

But the thing was,  _ he didn’t.  _ They could be closing in on him right then and there, and he’d be none the wiser. He was probably looking out over the horizon, wondering what was taking you so long. Waiting for you to come back.

And that  _ hurt. _

You had to send him a message, had to warn him that something was coming. But how? He was too far away for you to call out, too far away to even _see_ you. But you had to do something, _anything_. Anything to keep him safe.

It had to be big, had to be eye-catching, had to be…

_ Explosive. _

Your gaze fixed on the rapidly overflowing fuel canister, kicking out with your leg and sending it careening across the asphalt, gasoline spewing from its opening in a snail trail of sorts. You grabbed the hanging nozzle and doused your surroundings in fuel, discarding the hose and diving to the side as the gunmen stormed your hiding place. Bullets pinging off where you where your head had been moments before.

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck!”  _ you chanted, skidding to a stop as the not-so-hungover woman blocked your path, staring wide-eyed down the barrel of a gun. Before she could even pull the trigger, you punched her in the jaw and kneed her stomach, throwing her to the ground and snatching the gun from her hands.

“I can do this, I can do this,” you whispered to yourself, hands shaking as you tried to work the weapon. It was simple, right? Sure, Bucky hadn’t actually shown you  _ how _ to use one, but you could totally figure it out.

“I can’t do this!” you shouted, squeezing your eyes shut and whirling around, pulling the trigger and firing haphazardly at the encroaching soldiers. You practically flew backward from the recoil, shoulders aching as your fingers trembled in shock. Watching in a mix of triumph and horror as one of the men fell to the ground, crying out in pain and clutching at his shoulder. 

Two incapacitated, one left.

Time to bring out the big guns. (Metaphorically speaking).

You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out the matches, fumbling panickedly with the box as you grabbed one and struck the head against the side, cursing loudly as it refused to light.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you hissed, tossing the faulty match aside and picking another one, “light!”

And as if god finally decided to peek out from behind the clouds, the fire took. Flames dancing merrily as you held out the match like an ace up your sleeve.

“Hasta la vista, baby,” you growled, flicking the lit match into the pool of gasoline and booking it. Running faster than you ever had in your entire life, which wouldn’t be much longer if you didn’t  _ hurry up. _

You could feel the flames warming your back, the sickly sweet smell of gasoline permeating the air as the fire licked at the walls.

And then a wall of heat rushed forward and sent you  _ flying.  _ A sharp ringing piercing your ears as you fled from the explosion, smoke choking your lungs as you coughed and hacked. Debris and flames pelting your bruised body as you stumbled and tripped, desperately trying to keep your footing as you ran.

But your foot caught on a stray piece of metal, and your body pitched forward and slammed to the ground with a painful  _ thump _ , your skull cracking sharply against the pavement. Everything went fuzzy, blurry; your world spinning on its axis as you tried fruitlessly to crawl away. Snippets of conversation piercing through the hazy buzz settling over your mind.

“Find...escaped...not dead...take the...girl…”

Then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops


	18. Please Don’t Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood, torture, knives and guns

You woke alone. Woke with bruises across your skin and burns all over your back, a throbbing bump the size of a pear suckered to your forehead. It was cold, so very, very cold. And the moment you cracked your eyelids open, you knew that you were fucked.

Four walls of solid concrete, a reinforced metal door, and a flickering fluorescent bulb that burned your retinas. Not exactly the Ritz, but certainly better than being dead (though that belief would come into question later). You didn’t have much in there with you, or anything at all, really. A stone slab and grimy toilet were set in opposite corners, and the only thing protecting your dignity was a small partition that barely reached your waist. 

What wonderful hospitality from your oh-so generous hosts.

You sat up with a groan, blinking away the spots in your vision as you took stock of your condition. You’d been stripped down and dressed in an impersonal hospital gown, your bare feet almost comical in the dreariness of your cell. Everything hurt--your head especially--and the only reason you hadn’t slipped back into unconsciousness was your own, crippling fear.

Fear for yourself, and fear for Bucky.

God, you hoped he was okay. Hoped he had the sense to run _away_ from the explosion and not _towards_ it. Hoped he’d taken the blast for the warning it was and gotten the _fuck_ out of dodge.

But for all you knew, he hadn’t. 

And he was with them once again.

A pained sob threatened to claw its way out of your chest, guilt clouding your mind as you reflected on how you’d gotten into this predicament. ‘If onlys’ and ‘should’ves’ bounced about in your head like dice in a Yahtzee cup, taunting you with your shortcomings, mocking your failures.

**If only you’d fought harder.**

**You should’ve known they were Hydra.**

**If only you weren’t so** **_weak._ **

The grating creak of the door hinges startled you from your thoughts, a looming shadow standing in the doorway and stepping inside. You turned and gawked at the man who’d interrupted your brooding, bitter recognition twisting your mouth into a scowl.

“ _You.”_

“Ya miss me?” the creep from Salt Lake City grinned, lips upturned in a macabre smile. He took another step closer, laughing quietly to himself as you threw yourself back, crowding you into an empty corner, “I have to say, it’s _great_ to see you again.”

“Don’t really feel the same,” you said darkly, hackles raising as he threw his head back and _laughed_.

“The name’s Rumlow,” he grinned, “you and I are going to have some... _fun_ , together.”

* * * *

“You and I have very different ideas of fun,” you spat, grunting in pain as Rumlow jabbed his fist into your stomach. You sucked in a breath between your teeth, the metallic tang of blood bursting across your tongue as Rumlow backhanded you across the face.

“For the last time,” Rumlow seethed, grabbing you by the collar and pulling you close, restraints chafing your wrists as the chair you were tied to tipped forward, “where is the Asset?”

“His name is _Bucky,”_ you growled, spitting in his face and smiling as he wiped the mix of saliva and blood off his cheek. He pushed you away and the chair settled with a jolt, ripping the air from your lungs as he aimed a particularly vicious kick to your stomach. 

At the very least, in face of all this torture, you knew that Bucky was alright.

And that made everything worth it.

“Aw, were you two playing house?” Rumlow taunted, smiling sweetly before wrenching your arm back until it _popped_ , “how’d you do it?”

“Huh?” you groaned, a sharp pain throbbing in your undoubtedly dislocated shoulder.

“What are you? Mutant, enhanced, inhuman?”

“Uh, in-inhuman, as far as I know,” you said confusedly, grimacing as he dug his fingers into your swollen shoulder.

“You undid _decades_ of programming without batting a pretty little eyelash. A simple, normal, _girl,_ ” he sneered, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl, “making a mockery of Hydra’s greatest.”

“Trust me, you did it yourself,” you snarked, regretting your words as he drew his fist back and slammed it into your cheek, blood welling beneath your tongue as you flitted in and out of consciousness.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted, gripping your jaw until it ached, “you still have a lot to tell me.”

You remained silent, teeth gritted as you awaited the next blow.

“You two were going _somewhere,”_ he mused, tilting his head to the side like a parent admonishing a child, “your path was so predictable, the Asset’s losing his touch.”

Silence, but something in your face gave you away.

“Oh! You actually thought we _didn’t_ know where you were?” he laughed, eyes glinting with malice, “god, your naivety is _astonishing_.”

He tightened his grip on your jaw, tilting your head to the side like a farmer inspecting a horse. “You eluded us at first, I must admit,” he mused, a sick smile cracking his lips as he dug his nails into your cheek, “but a group of college students tipped us off. You should’ve heard them, boasting about cracking your skull open, mocking your overprotective ‘boyfriend,’” he reached forward and traced the puckered scar over your eyebrow, the stitching having long since been ripped out, “that’s how you got this, hm?”

You jerked away from his touch, flinching as he raked his nails down your cheek. Red welts rising across your bruised skin, stripes of crimson across watercolor blues and purples.

“We lost you for a bit, but then, well,” he spread out his arms in a grandiose gesture, “you ran into me.” He gave you a knowing look, “very tender moment, by the way, in the car. Quite touching.”

“You _motherfucker--”_

He dealt a swift uppercut to your jaw, your vision going spotty as you reeled from the blow. Teeth clacking together as you tried not to accidentally bite off your tongue.

“We were always just a step behind, the two of you barely slipping out of our grasp,” he sighed, tutting like a disappointed school teacher, “but that motel clerk, he was too kind for his own good. Heard a commotion and thought you were having a little…’domestic dispute.’ Called the cops and reported your poor, braindead buddy.” He smiled, not an ounce of guilt on his face, “he was a good kid, shame that he knew too much.”

“No...you didn’t…”

“We did,” another smile, eyes cold and merciless, “and we’ll do it again, if you don’t _tell us where he is.”_

The decision was clear. There was only one option, really; only one option that you could reasonably choose.

Defiance.

“You’ll _never_ find him,” you swore, jutting out your chin with more confidence than you felt.

“Oh, we won’t find him,” Rumlow grinned, knowing something you did not, “he’ll find _us.”_

* * * *

“Smile for the camera,” Rumlow said blithely, angling your chair so that you were facing the blinking tripod, “we’re going to give the Asset a little _message.”_

You tugged against your restraints, barely flinching as Rumlow predictably smacked you about, turning on the camera and focusing the lens on your battered frame. He tossed that day’s newspaper right in front of you, pointing the camera to the fluttering pages and zooming in on the date, panning back up to your face and returning to your side.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she, _Soldat,_ ” he grinned, staring mockingly at the camera as he grabbed you by the hair, tilting your head back and baring the column of your throat, “pretty important, I’d say. To you _,_ at least. But to me…” he pulled out a knife and held it to your throat, the cool line of metal pressing into your skin, “she’s expendable.”

An involuntary whimper left your throat as he tauntingly drew the knife across your neck, a thin cut weeping blood and staining the collar of your robe. You may have seemed weak, but your eyes were cool with determination as you stared into the lens. Imagining that you were looking into the icy blue of Bucky’s eyes.

_Stay strong._

_Stay vigilant._

_I’ll be okay._

“So I have an offer for you,” Rumlow said to the camera, releasing his grip on your hair, but not before giving the strands a harsh tug, “surrender yourself to Hydra, and we might just let her live.” He withdrew the knife from your throat, trailing it down your heaving chest and slicing into your raggedy gown. 

“But if you refuse…” he wound up his arm and mimed a stab to your heart, your pulse thundering as he pressed the pointed tip to your hot flesh and twisted. Stifling a whimper as blood ran down your chest and drenched your front, crimson splotches against yellowed white, “well, you’ll be lucky to find her in one piece,” he gave the camera a cruel grin, motioning for one of the many armed guards to come closer. Plucking a polished handgun from their grasp and pressing the cold barrel to your temple.

“I know you saw what this bitch did,” he snapped, finger itching to pull the trigger, “so noble, a lover’s sacrifice. Throwing away her life to save your miserable excuse of one.” He scowled and pushed the barrel into your skull, the aching pressure making you wince, “time’s ticking, and Hydra doesn’t have much patience for _malfunctioning weapons._ If that patience runs out... _”_

Lightning fast, he shifted and aimed the gun at your feet, pulling the trigger and shooting at the ground right in front of you. You jumped, shaking all over as the ringing in your ears ebbed into silence.

“I might just aim a little higher,” he threatened, voice sickly sweet as he grabbed your chin and forced you to meet his gaze, “now, just like we practiced.”

He forced you to look forward, fingers digging into your jaw as he waited for you to speak. You stared into the indifferent lens, fooling yourself into believing that you were looking right at Bucky. His visage the only thing keeping you sane as you endured the torture.

Because that’s all you could do, endure. You knew that you would break, it was inevitable. Stronger men than you had tried to resist, and had failed miserably. 

You could only pray for two outcomes; rescue, or death.

You dare not think of the others.

“Speak,” Rumlow ordered, moments away from breaking your jaw in a fit of rage.

“Bucky,” you croaked, voice dead as you were forced to relay Rumlow’s message, “you have twelve hours to arrive at the first meeting point. Fail to meet the time window, and I will suffer.” You swallowed, glaring defiantly into the camera as you prepared to speak again.

_Don’t listen._

_Don’t come._

_Stay free._

“Here are the coordinates--” you listed off the numbers from memory, the sequence ingrained in your mind after many beatings. “--don’t leave me to die, James.”

“Good,” Rumlow commended, releasing his vice like grip on your jaw, “Asset, it’s time to come home.”

And with that one sentence, your anger was reignited. Railing against your restraints as you screamed yourself hoarse, thrashing and kicking as you relayed your _true_ message.

“Don’t listen to them, Buck! Don’t let these octopus motherfuckers get their hands on you! I’m not worth it! Stay the fuck away from there, you hear me!? STAY THE FUCK AWAY--”

Rumlow smacked you upside the head with the butt of his gun, letting you hang limp against the ropes as he ended the recording, blackness encroaching in your vision as you fought to succumb to the dark.

Rumlow sighed, gathering a handful of your hair and _yanking_ your head back, a few clumps of matted strands ripping from your scalp.

“You had to make it difficult, huh,” he sighed, boxing you about the head as punishment. Your ears rang and your head was fuzzy, the room spinning like a carousel as you swayed in your restraints. Bile rose up your throat and threatened to spew out, the acidic burn making you choke on your next breath.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor reader...
> 
> ...poor Bucky :(


	19. My Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Nightmares, periods, torture, blood, knives, mutilation

_“Y/N, no!” the little girl shouted, pigtails flapping about like wings as she hung off your leg, her glittery barrettes clinging on for dear life._

_“Y/N, yes!” you cheered, scooping her up in your arms and twirling around. High pitched giggling echoing in your wake as you spun like a top, dancing around the small--but cozy--living room. You tossed her onto the couch and smothered her with the cushions, listening to her happy squeals as she fought back with a pillow of her own._

_“Noooo!” she shouted, drawing out the ‘o’ as you leapt away and ran towards the CD player, “don’t turn it offff!” You pouted as you let her pelt you with cushions, plugging your ears as the song you hated so passionately played over the speakers._

_Mmmbop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

_Mmmbop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

_“But I_ hate _this song,” you objected, “can’t we put on something else? The Beatles? Nirvana? How about Queen, you like Queen, yeah?”_

_She stuck out her lower lip, eyes watering as she crossed her arms over her puffed up chest, “no.”_

_“No as in you don’t like Queen, or no as in you won’t let me change the song,” you said exasperatedly, placing your hands on your hips and raising an exaggerated brow._

_“No,” she said firmly, stomping her little foot and shaking her candy pink tutu, “mhmbop.”_

_“Mhmbop,” you echoed, squatting down so that you were both eye-to-eye, “y’know, I like mhmbop a lot more than mmmbop. Maybe you should write your own song.”_

_She gasped, eyes wide as she bounced up and down on her purple painted toes, “you can play the guitar!”_

_“And you can be the singer.”_

_She gawked, “like Britney Spears?”_

_“No! Yes? Kinda? Ugh,” you sighed, clapping a hand to your forehead and heaving a sigh, “yes, like Britney Spears.”_

_“Yay!” she cheered, clumsily hopping up and down as she butchered the lyrics to ‘Baby One More Time,’ “we’re gonna make the bestest song_ ever!”

_“Even better than MMMBop?” you asked disbelievingly, gasping and covering your mouth._

_“Better-er!” she cheered, throwing her hands up in the air and doing a little twirl._

_“Better-er-er?”_

_“Better-er-er-er-er-er!” she shouted, struggling to make her ‘r’ sounds and ending up with a load of gibberish._

_You whistled lowly, stroking your chin as you furrowed your brow contemplatively, “dang, that’s a lot of ‘ers’, it’ll be hard to live up to those standards.”_

_She jutted her chin and puffed out her chest, hands perched on her hips as she fixed you with the most determined look ever seen on a toddler, “don’t worry, Scooby and Scrappy-Doo can do it!”_

_You swept her up in your arms and balanced her on your hip, jumping about and singing as she shrieked gleefully, “Scooby-Dooby-Doo, Where Are You? We got some work to do now. Scooby-Dooby-Doo, Where Are You? We need some help from you now.”_

_“Scrappy-Dappy-Doo, here to save the day!” she crowed, fidgeting in your arms as she danced and bobbed along. The two of you twirled for what felt like forever, with you singing the Scooby-Doo theme three times, as per her request._

_“Girls?” a man called as he entered the room, car keys in hand. He was soft-spoken and simply dressed, a kind look in his eyes that warmed the soul._

_“Daddy!” Scrappy shrieked, squirming out of your grip and launching herself at him, babbling happily as he turned to you with a soft smile._

_“Sorry, you two seemed to be in the middle of something…” he apologized sheepishly._

_You waved off his apology, “it’s fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”_

_He gave you a thankful grin, “I figured that since the two of you are gonna be here all weekend, we could get some ice cream together?”_

_“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” Scrappy chanted, bouncing up and down with each syllable._

_“Of course,” you grinned, ducking under his arm and letting him pull you in for a hug._

The dream shifted.

_You sat in the middle of a lake, hard concrete beneath your feet as you stared off into the endless horizon. The island you resided on was small, but there was just enough space for one other._

_That one other being, of course, Bucky._

_He looked just like he did in Nebraska. Tall and strong, sure-of himself, flower crown of gardenias and forget-me-nots perched on his brow._

_Beautiful._

_The scene was washed in shifting pastels, like watercolors settling on a canvas. The colors ebbing and flowing as they reflected off the two of you, enunciating the curve of his jaw and the jut of his chin. The petals almost translucent under the pulsing glow._

_Something tickled your brow, and you glanced up. Realizing that you, too, had a flower crown nestled in your hair. It was bushy and fragrant, yellow acacia woven with purple hyacinth. Egg yolk yellow splashed with bruised purple. It dug into your skin, almost painful as the stems poked at the tender flesh of your skull._

_“I have something for you,” Bucky said, voice sounding as if he were underwater. He stretched out a hand and a rose materialized between his fingertips, petals shifting from firetruck red to dark crimson and back again, “take it.”_

_You reached out, fingers brushing over the prickly stem, when suddenly the ground began to shake. Inky black tentacles shot out of the water--and not the sexy kind--twisting and undulating eerily as they barreled towards you._

_You opened your mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Watching helplessly as the tentacles wound around your waist and tried to drag you beneath the water. Burning your skin as if they were dipped in acid._

_And just before you were submerged, Bucky grabbed you with his metal arm and_ pulled _. Feet kicking and muscles flexing as he fought to keep you above water._

_“Take it!” he shouted, shoving the rose into your face. But you were too startled to do anything more than blink at him, “take it!” He was losing his footing, the two of you now waist deep in the ice cold waters. If he held on for any longer, he’d be dragged down with you too._

_And you couldn’t let that happen._

_So, you let go._

_And the last thing you saw before you were dragged under, was the heartbroken look on his face._

_“Take it.”_

_“_ **_Take it.”_ **

**“Take it!”**

You woke with a gasp, back aching from the unyielding stone slab you had been sleeping on. Stomach cramping from something other than hunger. You rolled onto your side, eyes widening as you felt a familiar stickiness between your thighs.

“Oh, so I guess god really _does_ hate me,” you groaned, curling up into a ball as a painful period cramp rolled through your gut, “holy fucking shit, _why?_ ”

You knew that you wouldn’t be given any products, so you might as well improvise. Tearing a strip from your gown and folding it into an impromptu pad, wiping off the mess of blood and slipping it into your underwear. You sat up in ‘bed’ and swung your legs off the side, clutching your head in your hands as you fought off a wave of nausea.

You hurt all over, the hours you had spent unconscious doing little to assuage your pain. You had no idea how much time had passed, no idea whether or not Bucky had taken the bait.

Although if he had, you supposed you’d already be dead.

The familiar creak of the door opening had you cowering in fear, the imposing figure of Rumlow marching into your cell and looming overhead. Teeth gritted and jaw ticking in barely restrained anger.

“The Asset never showed,” he growled, glaring at you as if it were all your fault. ( _Which,_ you thought with a burst of pride, _it kind of was_ ), “seems he doesn’t care for you after all.”

Your face twisted into a scathing glare, tamping down the feeling of inadequacy that threatened to break loose. You hadn’t wanted him to show up, you _didn’t_ want him to show up; but you felt rejected anyway. Abandoned.

_(Just like her)._

“His name,” you hissed, teeth bared in a vicious snarl, “is James Buchanan--”

He slapped you across the face, the sharp sting of his palm on your cheek making you wince. A dull ache emanating through your jaw as your old bruises smarted.

“Ya see, Y/L/N,” Rumlow said patronizingly, as if he were reprimanding a disobedient child, “your _Buchanan_ has kinda left you in the dust. Smart decision, really. Shouldn’t have kept you around in the first place.” He grabbed you by the scruff of the neck and yanked you to your feet, offering you no sympathy as your legs buckled from excruciating cramps, “I wonder why he didn’t drop you the first chance he got. Maybe you’re smart, tough, got something _hard_ beneath that innocent civvy look.” He pulled you close, lips split in a toothy grin, “or maybe it’s just… _sentiment._ ”

He gripped your dislocated shoulder and slid it back into place, smile widening as you shouted in pain.

 _“_ Now, why don’t we exploit that little weakness of his?”

* * * *

Time lost its meaning, after a while. The only sign that it had passed being your period slowly drawing to a close. And even then, you weren’t completely sure how long you’d been in their clutches. A week, perhaps. Maybe less.

Maybe more.

Every day was the same. You’d wake alone in your cell, Rumlow would drag you off to rough you up a little; and then he’d film another recording for Bucky. New meeting points, new times, and new messages. 

Sometimes he’d let you talk, plead; watching giddily as you cried out for Bucky to save you, sobbing his name as you were beaten within an inch of your life. You always felt guilty afterwards, knowing the role you’d unwilling played in his manipulation. Knowing that you were so goddamn _weak._

Other times he’d attack you if you even _breathed_ at him wrong. Yelling taunts and insults at the camera as he punched and cut your abused flesh, even going so far as to carve his initials over your pounding heart. (The cuts were thin, and had scabbed over quickly. With luck, it wouldn’t even scar). He always kept the gashes hidden beneath your clothes, making for a dramatic reveal whenever he wanted to show off to the camera. The myriad of scars standing out against your bruised skin, red streaks over nebulous clouds of purple and blue.

Day in and day out of endless torment, your only solace being Hydra’s continued failure in recapturing Bucky. You prayed that he never came, that he chose freedom over your ‘safety’ (you knew they’d kill you before letting you go, all you could do was hope he knew as well).

But then, something changed. For better or for worse, you weren’t sure yet.

But you’d find out soon enough.

“C’mon,” Rumlow growled, unceremoniously tossing you out of your cell, “the Asset’s closing in on us.”

“Bu--” you began to correct, but were predictably interrupted by Rumlow’s fist meeting your face.

“We gotta change locations before your lobotomized pal tears us a new one,” he gestured to the patrolling guards, surrounding you with a veritable army of agents, “I’ll send you guys the coordinates.” He whipped out a tablet of sorts and tapped at the screen, the agents pulling out tablets of their own and nodding in understanding.

You were still reeling over the sudden change in routine, struggling to piece together what was happening as you were paraded through the halls. The agents complaining loudly as they forced you into the back of a transport van, the car starting with a lurch and driving...somewhere. Brock sat to your left, slapping a pair of handcuffs on your wrists as he glared at the chattering guards.

“Never thought _we’d_ be the ones running from the Asset,” one of them joked, nervous laughter echoing through their ranks.

“Pierce fucked up big time,” another guffawed, looking to their fellow agents for approval.

“I’ll say,” one agreed, “let him get all _sappy.”_ They sent you a pointed glare, lips curling in a disapproving sneer.

Bucky was coming for you?

_Bucky was coming for you!_

A wave of hope swelled in your chest, extinguished like a birthday candle as you realized two things at once.

One, unless he stopped the completely innocuous van, he wouldn’t find you. 

And two, by trying to rescue you, he’d put himself in the line of fire.

The one thing you didn’t want.

Rumlow sent you a conniving grin, fingers gripping your thigh and harshly squeezing the bruised flesh.

“Trust me, it’s better this way.”

* * * *

They didn’t find Bucky.

And Bucky didn’t find you.

That pattern continued over the next few days.

You’d go to a new location, Rumlow’d beat the shit out of you; and then you’d leave before Bucky could catch up. It was a new form of torture. Knowing that salvation was just within reach, and having it slip through your fingers every time. Knowing that at any moment, Bucky could be theirs once again.

And you’d be dead.

Death, you had a funny relationship with her. Did you crave her? Or did you fear her? Would you reject her, or embrace her like a lover? You had a lot of time to think about it, teetering on the edge of life and oblivion. Mulling over existence itself as Rumlow rained blows on your battered frame.

God, Rumlow. That sadistic _bastard_. He seemed to be growing...angrier. More bitter, more short-tempered. Or at least, more so than he was before. Every time Bucky eluded capture, every time you talked back, every time Bucky came one step closer to breaking you out; he escalated. More brutality, more force, more viciousness. Tearing you apart in more ways than you thought possible.

And when Bucky escaped for the eighth time in a row, he snapped.

He _snapped_.

“Chance after chance, I’ve given that _thing,”_ Rumlow hissed, tying you down to what you’d lovingly come to call the Torture-Chair, “warnings upon warnings, threats upon threats.” He secured the ropes with one harsh tug, the sharp fibers chafing your callused skin. Friction burns wrapped around your wrists like bracelets. He gripped your chin and forced you to look at him, the manic glint in his eyes making you freeze in pure terror, “whatever happens next, you can blame _him_ for it.”

You shivered, bone shaking tremors running through your body as he rolled up your left sleeve.

“I recommend you stay still,” he remarked clinically, pulling out a gleaming scalpel, “wouldn’t want to cut any more than we need to, right?”

Your chest heaved with panicked breaths, fighting to remain frozen as he pressed the blade into the meat of your shoulder. Pain lancing through your arm as he skillfully cut through the top layer of skin. You shook and whimpered, screaming in pain as he suddenly stabbed the scalpel into your thigh.

“I told you to stay still!” he shouted, yanking out the blade with a heavy gush of blood. Cleaning the scalpel with the pad of his thumb and swiping the digit on your cheek, leaving a smeared trail of crimson on your blemished skin, “why won’t you just FUCKING LISTEN!?”

He dragged the bloodied blade down your clavicle, pressing down and watching fascinatedly as blood oozed from the shallow cut.

“I’m just following orders,” he hummed, eerily calm all of a sudden. Reaching forward and pinching the skin around the cut, forcing blood to spill down your chest, “any extra pain is your doing.”

You stifled the urge to scream, to swear, to fight and fight and fight until you died trying. He was insane, suggesting that you were at fault for his own actions. That you had control on what he did or did not do. _He_ had a choice, _he_ had autonomy.

There was one man in particular that was robbed of that.

“Now, let’s try that again,” he grinned, slicing the blade into your skin and continuing his meticulous linework. The tug of the blade against your flesh made you want to throw up, rivers of pain running through your body as you tried to remain completely still. Fear so deeply ingrained that you didn’t even blink.

Blood ran down your arm in a thick stream, dribbling onto the floor in a sickly _drip drip drip_ that made your head hurt. Sweat dripped down the column of your throat, beading on your collarbone and mixing with the crimson pool of blood that had already gathered there. Sliding down your front in a cold trail that made goosebumps erupt across your skin. 

You grit your teeth in defiance, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you in pain. Every grimace, every whimper, and every grunt seemed to spur him on. Encouraging him to shove the knife a little deeper, to saw the blade a little harsher, to milk every last bit of agony that he could. He lived for your pain, a maniacal laugh tumbling from his smiling lips as he forced a cry from your mouth.

He deftly swept the knife under your skin, peeling off a bloody piece like a goddamn sticker. The gruesome _rip_ made tears well up in your eyes, streaming down your face even as no sounds left your lips.

“Oh, it’s _beautiful,”_ he marvelled, carefully peeling off the flap of skin and lovingly setting it aside. He admired his handwork with a keen eye, tracing his finger over the bloody edge and laughing as you whimpered from the sting, “your precious ‘James’ is going to _love_ this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, imagining for just a moment that everything was normal. That the agonizing pain in your shoulder was nonexistent, that the chair you were sitting in was really a car seat. That the man sitting to your left wasn’t your torturer, but your Bucky.

But you weren’t allowed to daydream for long. Crashing back to reality when Rumlow grabbed you by the hair, angling your head so that you were staring down at your left shoulder.

“Look at that,” he whistled, smiling widely as he admired your terrified expression, “aren’t you an artist? Tell me what you think of my work.” He tightened his grip on your hair, tugging at the roots and threatening to rip out the strands, “ _tell me.”_

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered terrifiedly, staring blankly in muted horror at the shape he’d carved into your flesh.

A brutally familiar…

_Star._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read a different fic where this happens to the reader, but i can't remember the name nor the author. So full credit to them for the idea!
> 
> Flower Meanings (because I spent way too long looking them up)
> 
> Gardenia: Secret Love  
> Forget-Me-Not: Remembrance, true love  
> Yellow Acacia: Secret Love  
> Purple Hyacinth: Sorrow  
> Red Rose: Love  
> Crimson Rose: Mourning


	20. Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Torture, blood, knives, guns, electrocution

Everything _hurt_.

Your arm felt like it was on fire, pain spiralling through your body whenever you so much as twitched. The mess of bandages around your shoulder didn’t help things, either. The scratchy material catching at the scabbing wound and ripping it open, blood soaking through the cloth and forming the sloppy shape of a star; dark red and morbid.

It was somewhat poetic, or maybe cruel, that you’d been marked in such a way. A crude imitation of Bucky’s hated prosthetic, a vicious mockery of everything he’d gone through. You felt burdened with it, guilt running through you like poison as you imagined Bucky’s reaction.

He’d blame himself, undoubtedly. Would clench his fists and clutch at the seam where metal met flesh, trying to tear off the offending piece of machinery like a bandaid. No amount of reassurance would console him, he’d feel responsible for your suffering until the day he died.

That is, if he remained free.

_No_ , you refused to think about _that_ . Refused to dwell on such horrible possibilities. You would not let your suffering be for naught, would not let him be recaptured because of _you;_ a simple, normal girl who just wasn’t strong enough. Was _never_ strong enough.

And here you were now, a broken mess lying on the floor of your cell, too exhausted to even drag yourself up onto the slab. Waves of pain roiling through your prone body as you fought not to cry, blinking away tears before they could roll down your cheeks. God, you wanted to give in. Wanted to throw in the towel and just... _break._ It would be so easy to succumb, to quietly slip into oblivion and never come out. 

But there was a part of you, a tiny, glowing part, that refused. _(It was bright tutus and flower crowns, fingers twined in yours and arms wrapped around your waist)._

And that was enough to keep you going.

Suddenly and without warning, a guard barged into the cell and grabbed you by the arm. A sharp cry wending from your mouth as he dug his fingers into your wounded shoulder, unceremoniously yanking you to your feet and dragging you out the door.

“The Asset remains persistent,” the man grumbled, pulling you along as he escorted you through the halls, “we’re changing locations.”

“Bucky—” you objected, shouting in pain as he tightened his grip on your shoulder.

“Shut up,” he hissed, immediately lightening up when one of his Nazi buddies approched, “coordinates?”

“Sending them now,” the agent answered, whipping out a tablet and tapping at the screen. The guy holding your arm pulled out a tablet of his own, glancing at the numbers before tucking it back into his pocket. You blinked, forced back to reality as the man kicked you in the shin, “keep moving, girl.”

You begrudgingly obeyed, struggling to tamp down your enthusiasm as hope blossomed in your chest. Grateful that you had been so underestimated, looked down upon and overlooked.

You’d seen the coordinates.

You’d _seen_ them.

You knew where you’d be going--the complex series of numbers tucked safely in the corner of your mind. If you could somehow alert Bucky to your location…

Then for once, _he’d_ have the advantage.

And you could both get out of there, _alive._

* * * *

“Final warning, Asset,” Rumlow practically purred, tugging at your restraints and angling the Torture-Chair towards the camera. Stroking your cheek and ignoring how you fearfully flinched away, “I recommend you listen.”

He tossed that day’s newspaper at your feet, a wet squelch sounding as he threw... _something_ _else_ atop it. You glanced down at the floor and retched, stomach churning and shoulder burning in painful remembrance.

It was your fucking _skin,_ cut out in the bloody shape of a star.

“Would ya look at that,” Rumlow reached over and gripped your wounded arm, digging his fingers into the still weeping wound, “you match.”

You swallowed down a scream, staring into the camera and flicking your gaze down to your fingers, quickly returning your eyes to the lens before Rumlow could take notice.

“You see, if you’d just been a good Asset and _listened,_ ” a knifepoint trailed down your cheek, tracing down your neck and skating over your bandages, “your precious gal would’ve been fine.”

The knife trailed further downwards—too light to draw blood but still a substantial threat—skipping down your side and curving over your hip. Tracing your pelvis and lazily traveling down your thigh. He watched fascinatedly as your throat worked with every swallow, moving the knife to rest over your pulse point. Heart jackrabbiting as he pressed the knife into the pulsing artery—just enough for you to freeze in anticipation—before withdrawing the blade.

“This,” he chuckled, gesturing to the bloody mess on the floor, “is _your_ fault.” He emphasized the word ‘your’ by jabbing the knife at the camera, laughing at how you instinctively flinched at the harsh movement.

“Oh, you should’ve heard her. Her screams were _exquisite,_ ” he taunted, watching you eagerly for your reaction. Your face remained stony, staring straight ahead as you subtly, _oh-so subtly,_ began to tap your fingertips against the metal armrest. A deliberate, patterned _tap tap tap_ that you prayed Bucky would recognize (and Rumlow wouldn’t).

_(“Okay, Scrappy, repeat after me.”_

_“‘Kay.”_

_“... --- …”_

_“--- … ---”_

_“No! It’s dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. Not dash dash dash, dot dot dot, dash dash dash.”_

_“What’s the big deal?”_

_“Do you want to say SOS, or OSO?”_

_“Oso...that sounds funny!”_

_“Yeah, sure. But I won’t know you’re in trouble if you do OSO instead of SOS.”_

_“Okay, jeez! … --- …”_

_“There we go.”_

_“Hmph!”_

_“C’mon, Scrapadoodle. I need to know if you’re in danger while I’m away. Morse code is the best way to do that.”_

_“I know. I’m just...I’m gonna miss you.”_

_“Gonna miss you too, Scrapadoodle.”)_

With quick, practiced beats you tapped out the latitude. Freezing in place as Rumlow turned his attention back to you, grabbing your chin and roughly tilting your head to the side. Smiling at the camera as he pressed the gleaming knife to your throat.

“I could make her scream, just for you,” he said darkly, pressing the flat of the blade over your neck, “but that’s besides the point.” He returned his focus to the camera, giving you just enough time to hastily tap out the longitude. Gazing pleadingly into the camera as you repeated the sequence of numbers again and again.

_Please please please please—_

“You’ve been a thorn in my side for far too long,” he sighed, tilting the knife so that it caught the light, “making a fool out of me and everyone else in this fine organization.” You bit back the urge to scoff, swallowing tightly and staring straight ahead as Rumlow continued his monologue, “it ends now.”

He flipped the knife in his palm and pressed the point to your chest, digging into the muscle right above your heart. Applying just enough pressure to draw a single droplet of blood. Your heart hammered against the blade, beating a panicked tattoo into your ribs as you fought to compose yourself. Taking deep, heaving breaths that did nothing but push the knife deeper.

“Your valiant attempts at rescue are...pitiful, to say the least. And Hydra has grown tired of indulging you,” Rumlow said coldly, tracing the knife in spirals over your heart, “try to rescue her again, and she will die. Quite painfully, I assure you.”

Your breath hitched involuntary, panic flooding through your veins and shining in your widened eyes. Silently pleading to the camera, pleading to the man on the other end.

_Please see._

_Please come._

_Please help._

“You have twenty four hours—rather generous, I must say—to reveal yourself,” Rumlow grinned, fixing the camera with a smug look, “no meeting points, no time frames. We’ll come to you.”

There was something else he had to say, the excitement in his tone making panicked goosebumps erupt across your skin. Cold shivers running up and down your spine like slivers of ice.

“And if you don’t…” his lips cracked into a manic smile, dragging the knife down your stomach as if he were gutting you, “well, I hope you aren’t too attached to your girl.”

_Tap tap tap_. A desperate beat of your fingers that you prayed Rumlow didn’t hear, spelling out one last message before he could end the recording.

_B-U-C-K-Y_

“Broken machines need to be fixed,” Rumlow sighed, withdrawing the knife and tucking it into his belt, standing up and walking over to the camera. Ducking down so that his smiling face filled the frame, “it’s time you came back to where you belong.”

_I-T-S_

You couldn’t see his face, but the sliminess of his tone was enough to make you want to vomit. Disgust and a little dash of hope coiling in your stomach as he stared obliviously at the lens, underestimating you once again.

“Back to Hydra,” you could hear the grin in his voice, the blatant smugness making your skin crawl.

_O-K-A-Y_

“Twenty-four hours,” he reminded, ending the recording with a triumphant smile pulling at his lips. He turned to you and spread out his arms, a taunting grin on his face as he took a looming step closer, “not bad, I’d say. You play the part well.”

You licked your chapped lips, a tendril of fear curling around your heart even as hope coursed through your veins. 

“You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you,” you said quietly, seemingly resigned to your fate.

He smiled, “oh, Y/L/N.

Why are you so surprised?”

* * * *

You woke to alarms.

Shrieking, flashing, blaring alarms.

Just what you wanted.

You could hear the percussive beat of footsteps hammer outside your cell, the harsh staccato of gunshots sounding from somewhere deep inside the facility. There was screaming; frenzied, panicked orders shouted in a chaotic mish-mash of languages. But there was one word that stuck out, one word that made your heart jump ahead a few beats.

Asset.

_Bucky._

He had come for you despite the threats, despite the dangers, despite the odds. Risking life and limb to rescue you from Hydra’s clutches. You could feel hope spark in your chest, finally flaring to life after being neglected for so very, very long.

That hope was quickly snuffed out once Rumlow burst into your cell.

“You little _bitch!”_ he shouted, spittle flying as he grabbed you by the neck and yanked you to your feet, “you set us up!”

You smiled unrepentantly, still grinning even as he slapped you across the face.

“I should kill you right now,” he growled, grabbing you by the collar and shaking you like the rag doll, “leave you for your ol’ pal to find.” 

You didn’t doubt he’d do it. In all honesty, you were surprised he’d waited so long to try. His hand wrapped around your throat, the brutal familiarity making your blood run cold. Fingers digging into your soft skin and undoubtedly leaving one hell of a bruise.

“But then again…” a smile slowly spread across his face, an underlying streak of brutality that made you wish he’d just strangled you, “why don’t we make it _personal.”_

He kicked open the door and dragged you out into the hall, keeping you close even as the frenzied rush of agents buffeted you from all sides. The blaring lights awashed everything in a deep, crimson red; alarm bells ringing in your ears as you stumbled and tripped in a lackluster effort to keep up.

You thought you’d known fear, had known the slow broiling panic that’d take root in your gut and simmer for hours on end.

You were wrong.

This, _this_ was fear.

The agonizing, burning panic that stole the breath from your lungs and rationality from your brain. Leaving you a trembling, shaking mess as Rumlow carted you along like a drowned cat. Gasping and sobbing on every breath, trying to cry out for help but finding no voice to scream with.

_Bucky Bucky Bucky--_

“ _James,_ ” you rasped, losing your footing as Rumlow burst into a room and shoved you to the floor. Sprawled out on the cold concrete as he viciously kicked you in the side, herding you into the center like a rabid animal.

“Thought you could outsmart Hydra,” he seethed, grabbing you by the hair and dragging you across the floor, “thought you could outwit the best.” He forced you up onto your knees, using his grip on your hair to direct your attention to the structure in the middle.

It was a chair of some sort, metal protruding at sharp angles with a strange headset perched overhead. Electrical nodes seemed to be attached to the inner lining of the helmet, blackened and dark from repeated use; a suspiciously red crust coating the ancient components. The damn thing practically oozed malice, pain and agony lingering in an aura of misfortune.

“Terrifyingly beautiful, isn’t it?” Rumlow hummed, pushing you forward and forcing you into the chair, metal restraints snapping around your wrists and holding you in place, “wait ‘til you see it in action.”

Your breaths came faster, but your lungs still burned in need of oxygen; vision going blurry as you tried and failed to fight back the wave of overwhelming panic. You had been so _close._ So close to being free, so close to seeing Bucky again.

And now all of that was gone.

“I should’ve thought of this before!” Rumlow said with a bark of laughter, petting the headset with a gruesome fondness that made your stomach twist in knots. He turned to you and grinned at your fearful expression, seeing the panicked confusion that lay just beneath the surface. “Y’know, I’ve seen that face before. Where was it…” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, enjoying the dramatics of the moment, “ah, yes, right before we’d scramble the poor Asset’s brains.”

Your eyes widened, regretful understanding coursing through you as Rumlow’s words soaked in.

“He’d be crying, begging, calling out for his dead pal to save him. Of course, that was before we’d throw his mind into the blender. Afterwards, he’d be nice and quiet,” he smiled darkly, looking you up and down appraisingly, “think you’ll be quiet, too?”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” you spat, fear replaced by burning rage as you gnashed and bared your teeth.

“Or maybe you’ll just be _dead,”_ his face lit up like a child on Christmas morning, “that’ll be fun to watch.”

“You’re fucking _sick.”_

“You act like I don’t know that,” he gave you a condescending smirk, holding out a rubber mouthguard and nudging it between your lips, “now open up. Wouldn’t want to bite off your tongue, would ya?”

Begrudgingly, you obeyed; gritting the mouthguard between your teeth and wearing your molars into the rubber. You glared daggers at him as he moved over to the computers, the sudden whirring of the machine making your stomach drop in anticipation.

“Try not to move!” he shouted over the crackling of electricity, the headset lowering and hovering over your temples. You were hyperventilating, eyes squeezed shut as if you were about to go over a drop on a rollercoaster, the sizzling sparks shining through the curtain of your eyelids, “it’ll only hurt a lot.”

Metal connected to flesh, and everything went white.

It was like a hot poker had been shoved into your skull and whisked around, scrambling up your thoughts, your memories, your _identity_ . All of the glimmering pieces that made you _you_ swirling down the drain, sparkling like pennies at the bottom of a fountain. Shining and distant and unattainable.

There was nothing you could do but scream, the acrid taste of rubber and copper sitting on the back of your tongue as you screamed and screamed and _screamed._ Wordless, guttural cries that tore from your throat like daggers and hurt like them too. Shuddering with full body spasms that wracked through you in painful bursts, veins bulging and muscles jumping with crackling electricity. Were your eyes open or shut? It was impossible to tell, your vision darkening and brightening like a lamplight in an alleyway. 

You were barely aware of anything more than the torture. Not the primal scream of rage, not the back and forth of bullets right in front of you, nor the click and whir of a certain metal prosthesis. Coherency had been torn from you with the first burst of electricity, and even once the machine had powered down, you were still out of it. Disjointed memories and thoughts skipping about in your head like a broken record, jumping from place to place with no discernible link in between.

Your restraints released with a hiss, and you slumped forward and crashed into a firm, broad chest; mismatched arms wrapping around you and slipping the mouthguard out from between your teeth. Drool dripped from your slack lips as your mouth refused to close, eyes rolling as you struggled to grab onto a frayed thread of being. There was a soft hum in your ear, the rumbling cadence smoothing over your scattered mind like a balm, even if you couldn’t understand the words. Your head was buzzing, the static growing impossibly louder as you stared up into a familiar pair of icy blue eyes.

And everything clicked into place.

“ _Bucky?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! They're back together! I'm sure absolutely nothing bad will happen to them ever again! :D


	21. Crimson Star (Poisoned Words)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: guns, explosions, murder, disassociation

“Yeah, doll. It’s me,” he murmured, drawing you close into his comforting warmth. And you nearly cried because it _hurt_ and your head was pounding and you couldn’t remember why couldn’t you _remember?_

“Bucky,” you repeated, clumsily running your hands over his shoulders and down his back. Because he was _real_ and _there_ and _alive,_ the only thing left in your leaky sieve of a brain that made any sense _._ Whole and untouched like a flower preserved in resin.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he reassured, looping his arm around your waist and hoisting you to your feet, “I interrupted the wipe, but...do you remember?”

Well, that was the million dollar question.

And you certainly weren’t winning the jackpot today.

“Bucky,” you echoed—because that name had come before your own—reaching up and cupping his jaw, “ _James.”_ Your memories were scattered and out of whack, slipping from your grasp like shoals of silvery fish; slowly coming into focus like a photograph in a dark room.

“Y/N,” he breathed, tenderly brushing his knuckles over your cheek, “do you know who you _are_.”

You screwed up your face in thought, combing through your mind in an effort to dredge up your tarnished memories. It hurt, like a porcupine rattling about in your skull, but the pieces gradually fell into place. Fitting together into the complex, shitty puzzle that was your life. “I _remember.”_

His expression stuttered and his eyes grew dewey, breath punching out of him in a sob as he pressed his forehead to yours, “oh god, _Y/N_.”

And in the middle of a falling Hydra facility, you embraced. The distant screams and gunshots quieting to a droning buzz as you melted into his grip, feeling nothing but safety in his arms. You may have been crying, and maybe he was, too; based on the way his shoulders shook with each uneven breath.

“I missed you,” you whispered childishly, sent plummeting back to reality as you glanced around the room and found it empty, “where’s...where’s Rumlow?”

He pulled back, arms still securely wrapped around your middle as he held you close. “The fucker ran,” he said coldly, a darkness about his face you’d never seen before, “but I got a few good licks in before he did.” He gently ran his fingers over your bandages, pulling away as if he’d been burned when you involuntarily flinched, “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault…”

“I made my choice,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand and bringing it to your left shoulder, “arguably a stupid choice, but it was mine.” His fingers flexed, an unreadable expression on his face as he let go of your waist and grabbed your hand. Leading you over to the door and gripping the knob between his metal fingers.

“Can you run?” You nodded. “Then stay close.”

He threw the door open and you were off like a shot, trailing at his heels as he punched and slashed his way through the throng of agents. There was a certain grace about him. Fluid, sinuous movements that were too fast for the eye to follow, a blur of rippling muscle and flashing metal. His strength was unparalleled, crashing through their ranks as if they were mere bowling pins; knocking them aside like flimsy paper cutouts. 

He was a tank, a whirlwind of blurred movement; ducking and weaving as he took advantage of the armory’s worth of weapons strapped to his side. Bullets ricocheting off his prosthetic and felling the surrounding agents, absorbing hits without so much as a flinch.

You should’ve felt intimidated, threatened by his inhuman strength and uncanny skill. But how could you, when he protected you with such passionate ferocity? How could you, when he shielded you with his own body? There was warmth in your heart and he was at the center of it, your guardian angel sent to rescue you from Hell.

“Get down!” he suddenly shouted, scooping you up in his arms and diving forward, pinning you to the ground and holding you to his chest. The walls shook from the explosion, a wave of heat rushing forward as the grenade detonated harmlessly several feet away. He rolled off of you and leapt to his feet, whipping out a handgun and effortlessly shooting the offending agent. The bullet-riddled corpse fell to the ground with a heavy thump, joining the ankle-deep sea of bodies and melting into the crowd.

They deserved it, every single one of them. Deserved to rot and burn and _suffer_ not only for what they’d done to you, but for what they’d done to Bucky.

Yet you couldn’t shake your hatred for death, couldn't shake the pacifism that you’d painstakingly cultivated over the years. You hated having to hurt people, hated having to _kill_ even more (not that you’d ever done so. The Hydra agents at the gas station had—unfortunately—survived).

But if it came down to it, would you take the shot? Would you kill for the greater good?

You weren’t yet sure.

“C’mon,” Bucky said gruffly, hooking an arm around your waist and effortlessly sweeping you along, half-dragging-half-carrying you through the dimly lit halls. An eerie silence had settled over the facility, all it’s occupants having either fled or died disappointingly short deaths. Apparently, loyalty wasn’t Hydra’s strong suit. Who would’ve guessed that Nazi’s lacked moral compasses?

The back of your neck prickled with anxiety, heart galloping in your chest as Bucky led you through the twisting maze of hallways. There was something you had missed, something more to the silence that was pressing in from all directions. The fact that Bucky was almost out of weapons certainly didn’t help things, either.

“Bucky—” you whispered meekly, crashing into his back as he suddenly froze in place, muscles stiff and spine tense. You peered around his bulk and frowned, unsure why he was so scared of a man with a red book.

“No,” he honest-to-god _whimpered_ , voice breaking as he shakily pointed the gun at the book-wielding agent, “ _no—”_

“ _Sputnik_ ,” the man said coldly, watching dispassionately as Bucky sagged forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The gun fell to the ground with an ear-splitting clatter, seemingly forgotten as Bucky sluggishly surged towards the agent. Fighting off the drug-like effects of...something, eyelids heavy and steps uncoordinated as he swayed to and fro like a ship unmoored.

“No…” Bucky slurred, dropping to his knees and resting his forehead against the concrete floor, metal arm clicking and whirring like a rattlesnake shaking its tail.

_Danger danger danger._

“Bucky!” you gasped, rushing forwards and throwing yourself over his prone form, attempting to shield him from the agent’s incoming attack.

But no attack came. In fact, the man seemed content to just flip through his crimson book. Turning to a yellowed page and opening his mouth to speak, words of poison rolling off his daggered tongue.

“Желание,” he said dully, Bucky jerking to life and attempting to bat you away at his words. Accomplishing nothing more than tiredly patting your leg, like a starving kitten trying to protect itself. You stared at him in confusion, struggling to understand just what the agent’s plan was, trying to decipher why Bucky was acting so strangely. The words obviously had _some_ sort of an effect on him, although you didn’t know exactly what...

Seemed like you were about to find out.

“ _Ржавый,_ ” the man continued, taking an assured step closer. You hooked your elbows under Bucky’s arms and planted your feet, dragging him backwards despite his incomprehensible murmurs of protest. The agent appeared nonplussed, continuing his approach even as you cursed the very air he breathed.

“Fuck off! Leave us alone!” you shouted, voice hoarse and weak from screaming, “ _go away!”_ You lunged forward and aimed a punch to his gut, sent sprawling as he easily blocked and returned your hit. You flung yourself backwards, wrapping yourself around Bucky as you tried to shield him from the steadily approaching threat.

“ _Семнадцать,_ ” he took another step closer, unperturbed by your pitiful attempt at an attack. When he came too close for comfort, you lashed out. Kicking wildly in an effort to scare him off.

It worked, though only barely. The man taking half a step back and continuing to read the cursed words, unbothered by your frenzied thrashing and screaming. You stood no chance against him hand-to-hand, and there was no way you’d willingly leave Bucky’s side.

So you’d stay with him, ‘til the very end.

_“Рассвет.”_

Bucky was screaming, shaking like a lamb as he slipped out of your arms and lunged forward. Scrabbling at the concrete as he willed his discordant limbs to move, shouting in a mix of languages as he tried to fight the hazy fog settling over his mind.

_“Печь.”_

You watched in muted horror as the fight ebbed out of him, replaced by bone deep exhaustion that left him slumped over on the floor. Teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut in agonizing pain.

Pain that you could do nothing to alleviate.

_“Девять.”_

You rushed forward, gathering Bucky in your arms and blanching as he shrugged you off. Urging you to leave by splaying a hand across your chest and pushing with what little strength he had left.

“Go,” he pleaded, desperation growing as you stubbornly shook your head no, “ _run!”_

_“Добросердечный.”_

And with that, a half-baked plan formed in your mind. Desperation forcing you to take risks, desperation forcing you to question your morals.

Desperation forcing you to kill.

_“Возвращение на Родину.”_

You scrambled for Bucky’s discarded gun, feeling the cool metal beneath your fingertips as you hoisted the barrel and aimed it right at the man’s chest.

You didn’t think, you didn’t breathe.

You just... _shot._

_“Один—”_

The gun jumped, the bullet fired, metal met flesh in a burst of iron and copper. And the agent fell to the floor, blood-red book still clutched in hand.

Dead before he even hit the ground.

A scream caught in your throat, gun tumbling from your grip as you clapped your hands over your mouth. Disgust roiling in your stomach as your sense of self lay in shambles, shattered like a porcelain doll against concrete. Reeling over what you’d just done, what you could _never_ come back from.

You’d just killed a man.

_You’d just killed a man._

You took a stumbling step forward, collapsing to your knees and grasping at Bucky’s too-still shoulders. Shaking him like a rag doll as you begged him to speak, to move, to _breathe_. Vision going blurry as tears threatened to spill over, voice wavering as you pleaded to anyone who would listen.

“Bucky, _please,_ ” you practically sobbed, voice breaking as you cradled his head in your lap. Tenderly brushing his hair back as you waited for his eyes to open, “ _don’t leave me._ ”

You curled around him like a reed bowing to the wind. Fingers twined in the fabric of his shirt as you clutched him to your chest. Lips pressed to his brow as you whispered into his skin, nose buried in his hair whilst you rocked back and forth.

His jaw twitched, and you froze. Watching with bated breath as he tiredly blinked his eyes open, pupils glazed over and glassy as they fixed on something overhead. You breathed his name, and they slid over to meet yours. Hazy and distant, as if he were seeing right through you.

“Oh, James,” you whispered sadly, reaching out and brushing your thumb over his cheek. He didn’t blink, but your heart ached as he unconsciously pressed into your palm. A subtle pressure that both broke and mended your heart. 

He was stuck at an in-between. Teetering between two personas, a slight breeze enough to send him plummeting one way or another. One wrong move, and you’d lose him to the dark. 

Best to tread lightly, then. 

Or else the ground would collapse beneath your feet.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you said softly, the pet name rolling off your tongue with ease, “you’re okay, it’s okay.”

He seemed unconvinced, but he didn’t object. Staring up at you unblinkingly as you stroked your thumb over his cheekbone, a rhythmic back and forth that made his gaze soften slightly. Icy blue melting into the gentle swell of the ocean.

“It’s okay,” you repeated, words catching in your throat as he nuzzled into your hand. Breath fanning over your wrist as you curled your fingers around his jaw, brushing over his stubble and feeling his pulse beat languidly beneath your fingertips, “I’ve got you.”

His eyes cleared of their haze, and he finally _saw_ you. Voice cracking as he brokenly called out, “Y/N.”

“Yes, James. It’s me, I’m here,” you reassured, twining your fingers with his human ones and holding them to your chest, “what do you need?”

He swallowed tightly, lips parted as he took in a shaky breath, “just...talk to me, please.”

“Okay sweetheart,” you hummed, “I’ll talk.” The two of you had all the time in the world, what with the facility being emptied and your exit door now mere feet away. 

You could talk for as long as he’d need.

“Y’know, I taught my sister the constellations, too. Way back when,” you said warmly, continuing to brush your thumb over his cheek, “she’d drag me to the window and make me point them out to her. Always in the same order, too.” You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, ignoring the muted wailing of klaxons as you continued your story, “but her absolute favorite, was the Little Dipper. Mainly because it was the only one she could see.” You smiled at the memory, eyes warm with rosy nostalgia, “that was us, Big Dipper and Little Dipper. Scrappy and Scooby.”

“Which one was she,” he asked quietly, looking up at you with genuine warmth in his expression.

“Hm?”

“Which one was she, Scrappy or Scooby?”

“She was Scrappy, I was Scooby,” you explained, “it’s from a cartoon. I’ll show you it, sometime.”

“I’d like that,” he breathed, looking up at you almost longingly before abruptly pulling away, standing up and courteously helping you to your feet, “thank you, for that. I needed it.”

“Anytime,” you answered, letting him take you by the hand and lead you out into the sun. You stumbled in the blaring light, eyes burning as you adjusted to the shock of _finally_ stepping outside. Pushing back all the bad as you let the good soak in, like wild honey drizzled over sponge cake.

“This way,” he instructed, directing you to a black Jeep parked on the outskirts of the base. You quickly hopped into the passenger’s seat, heart exploding with joy as Bucky took his rightful place beside you.

“Let’s go,” you grinned, smile widening as the engine roared to life.

And as you sped off into the proverbial sunset, you finally felt alive again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after, the end... >:)


	22. Slowly, Then All At Once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short, but I think we've all been waiting for this one

The euphoria of escape faded far too soon.

And desolation took its place.

Your arm ached and your head hurt and you were still reeling over the fact that you’d just _killed someone._ Shot him in the heart and watched him fall to the ground, blood feathering across his chest in dark furls of muted crimson. And yeah, he most certainly deserved it (deserved worse, actually). But the weight of taking a life pressed down on you like Atlas holding up the sky.

And soon enough, your knees would buckle.

You shifted in your seat, put off by the unfamiliar feel of the upholstery. The leather rough and firm where it once was soft and plush. Different, but not in a good way. Separating the ‘before’ from the ‘after’ like a picket fence between two suburban mansions.

Funny that it was the goddamn _chair_ you were sitting on that brought everything crashing down. But that’s just life. Sometimes, it’s the insignificant things that send you over the edge.

Like the fact that you’d just lost...everything.

Not necessarily _everything_ (you still had Bucky, afterall), but everything that...that you had _left._ You weren’t one to mourn over the material, but there was definite sadness in the loss of things you’d held so near and dear. Your sketchbook, your CD’s, your _sister’s disc._

**_(The one thing of hers you still had--)_ **

No, you weren’t going to think about that now. And you weren’t too keen on thinking about it later, either. You had to keep moving forward, had to get the fuck out of Iowa and travel to Brooklyn like you’d planned. And then...well, you weren’t sure exactly _what_ you’d do there, but it was better than dwelling on the past. Better than dwelling on the trauma you’d accumulated over the past ten days.

 _Ten days._ You didn’t believe it, _couldn’t_ believe it. Even after Bucky had told you how long he’d searched, how he’d raided every base he had come across while looking for you. How he’d watched every tape Hydra’d sent and sat, alone, debating whether or not he should give in to their demands. How he watched the gas station explode and felt as if his heart had been _torn in two--_

(Well, he didn’t exactly tell you _that_. 

Not yet, anyways.)

But it was undeniable; you were different, now. Different not just in physicality (the star on your shoulder was a glaring distinction), but mentally, too.

Translation: You were all sorts of fucked up. Hell, there was probably a list somewhere. Bullet pointed _and_ alphabetized.

And right at the top of it was you _killing a man._

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted, distracting you from your spiralling thoughts, “you did what you had to do.”

He always knew just what to say.

If only you did, too.

You let out a heavy sigh, drawing (Bucky’s) sweatshirt tightly around yourself as you curled up in the car seat. Pressing your nose to the fluffy collar and inhaling the simple, intrinsic scent that just screamed _Bucky._ Remaining silent as words failed to leave your mouth, sitting heavily on your tongue as if they were coated in lead.

_(Did I, though? Was there another way? Could I have avoided the situation entirely?)_

_(Thank you, for risking everything to come rescue me. I may never know what was at stake, but I will forever be grateful.)_

_(I missed you, more than you would know. Missed you more than a friend...)_

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, tentatively reaching out and hovering his hand over the radio player. Undoubtedly having sensed your inner turmoil.

Of course he knew what to do.

“Music?” he asked, pressing play as you ever so slightly nodded your head. The volume was too low for you to make out the lyrics, the beat thrumming beneath your skin as you stared unashamedly at his profile. You hadn’t seen the man in ten days, damnit. You were allowed to stare, to process that he was really _there._ (And he may have been staring back, just a little bit).

You scratched unconsciously at your left shoulder, the new bandages having alleviated most of the burn from earlier. It was nice, having fresh wrappings after so long. Even if the process had been...depressing, to say the least. Bucky whispering apology after apology as he wrapped the bandages over your scabbed over scar, voice laden with such naked vulnerability that it made your heart hurt. As soon as he had finished, you’d pulled him into your arms, the two of you swaying back and forth as you found comfort in one another.

You wanted to do it again. 

Not the bandaging part, the hugging part.

You’d missed it.

Bucky turned in your direction, and you quickly glanced away. Hiding the deep flush that had risen to your cheeks as he put up the volume, the lyrics finally eligible in the quiet of the car. The familiarity making something light up in your chest.

_Mmmbop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

_Mmmbop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du bop, ba duba dop_

_Ba du, yeah-e-yeah_

You froze, throat closing up with emotion as you dared to hope. Bucky’s eyes on you as you reached forward and ejected the disc, taking the CD in your shaking hands and letting out a broken sob as you read the print.

_Have fun in coolege!!! Dont forget me!_

**Helped her make this. We’ll miss you, Scooby. 2003**

_(Your sister’s disc)._

“How...I mean.. _.how?_ ” you asked, a tearful smile on your face as you glanced up at him, sniffling slightly as you tried not to completely break down.

He pulled over to the side of the road and sent you a sheepish look, reaching into the backseat and grabbing a camo backpack off of the floor. Unzipping the bag and holding the flaps open for you to see.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered, tears spilling over as you peered into the bag, “ _oh my god._ ” Every sentimental thing you’d left behind was there. Your discs, your sketchbook, your pencils; hell, even Alpine was in there. Staring up at you as if to say _“where have you been?”_

“I couldn’t just _leave_ them,” he shrugged, giving you a tiny smile as he handed over the bag, “I knew they were important to you.” Carefully, you tucked the disc into it’s sleeve, setting the bag aside and wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks, “are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you said weakly, voice breaking with a sob as you launched forward and wrapped your arms around him. Rubbing tears and snot into his shirt as you gasped, “ _thank you thank you thank you.”_

He returned your embrace and held you close, the console digging into your stomach as you pressed further into his loving warmth.

“Shh, doll. It’s okay,” he murmured comfortingly, hands stroking up and down your spine, “anything for you.”

You cried harder at his words, everything washing over you all at once in a brutal tidal wave of emotions. Fear, anger, guilt, elation; it all mixed together into a beautiful display of color and light. Churning and spiralling in gorgeous, abstract shapes that punched and pummeled you into a new person.

God, you didn’t deserve him. Didn’t deserve everything he’d done for you, all the sacrifices he’d made for your sake. Didn't deserve his kindness, his generosity, least of all his selflessness. His attention to detail and the easy banter and the way he tucked his hair behind his ear when he was flustered. The blue of his eyes and the brown of his hair, the effortless swoop of his spine as he slouched behind the wheel and sang along to the radio. The way he smiled, the crooked twist of his lips that knocked you flat on your ass as you stared into his eyes and realized _you_ _loved him._

You loved him.

_You loved him._

**_You loved him._ **

You’d loved him for a while now, really. Though you couldn’t exactly pinpoint where it began, where you shifted from animosity to friendship to romance. Where you allowed yourself to slip into the terrifying, yet wondrous sensation that was _love._

This wasn’t a crush, wasn’t misplaced attraction nor temporary infatuation. Wasn’t where you’d write your names together with little hearts (though you weren’t opposed to the idea) and call it a day. 

This was the real thing. What those pretentious poets wrote about in their sonnets, what philosophers spent decades trying to define. Wars fought and cities razed, civilizations built and peace established. All bundled up in a tiny, four-letter word that was assigned so much meaning.

Love.

Love for James Buchanan Barnes.

And as you pulled from his embrace and wiped at your eyes, you were hit with another realization.

 _Unrequited_ love for James Buchanan Barnes.

And, well…

How were you supposed to live with that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Finally some (mutual?) pining!
> 
> Also, I have to address a miscommunication real quick. Last chapter I made it seem as if the story was finished, and that's on me. But I assure you, it is not! We still have a long way to go, and a VERY big surprise that I hope you all enjoy! (I promise it's actually good. For real this time).


	23. Fall Down At Your Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied past child abuse, nudity, nightmares

Fairly normally, actually.

It was as if nothing had changed. The same banter, the same quiet companionship, the same teasing remarks. Without that life changing revelation, you would’ve been enjoying yourself. Relishing in your newly reclaimed freedom after so long spent in captivity.

But there was no turning back, no way to forget the four letter word that’d ruined everything.

And it really had ruined everything. Tarnished what had once been gleaming, rotted what’d once been fresh; ink spilt over a perfectly clean piece of parchment. You couldn’t even look at Bucky without your body betraying you, pulse quickening and face flushing as your gaze narrowed in on his lips.

It’s not like you could do anything about it. How could you, when you knew your feelings would be rejected? It was too soon, too new, too unprecedented. You’d barely known him for a month, and he’d had his identity back for even less time. Love just wasn’t on the agenda.

You wished you could pencil it in…

But the two of you were completely booked. What with Hydra looming in the shadows, nipping at your heels as you fled. One wrong move, and you were done for.

And if Rumlow got his hands on you again…

You shivered, banishing that thought to the corner of your mind as you stared out the window, distracting yourself with the surprisingly lush Illinoisan scenery. Stomach dropping as Bucky took a sharp U-turn, weaving between the trees as he expertly navigated the offroads. It was a miracle that you weren’t motion sick, considering the reckless driving he subjected you to. Perilous backroads, weaving trails, narrow paths; if Hydra didn’t kill you, a wreck certainly would.

But in the end, it was all necessary. Necessary to throw Hydra off your trail. 

Because Rumlow was right, in a way; the two of you  _ had _ been slacking when it came to staying off the radar. In all honesty, it was a damn miracle you’d managed to avoid Hydra for so long.

But from now on, you weren’t taking any chances.

It’d taken you forever just to get out of Iowa, Bucky refusing to leave until he was absolutely certain you weren’t being followed. Looping around and driving in confusing circles that made your head spin and stomach churn. Avoiding the main road and even driving through dense forests in order to remain undetected.

Which was exactly what you were doing now.

“‘M gonna throw up,” you gulped, nausea rising as the car jolted to the right. Clutching your stomach as your gut twisted and pinched.

“Make sure it’s out the window,” Bucky deadpanned, slowing down anyway; much to your queasy stomach’s delight.

“I’m aiming at you,” you threatened, obligingly facing the window and feeling the cool breeze against your sweat-slick skin. The pane was cracked open a smidgen, and you rested your forehead against the glass. Passively watching the trees pass you by, golden sunlight peeking through the thick canopy above and dappling the forest floor.

You let your eyes fall shut, breath fogging the glass as your face smushed up against the pane. Head buzzing as the car’s vibrations rattled through your skull. It was oddly peaceful, grounding; the low rumble of the Jeep that drowned out your thoughts, preventing them from wandering to... _ darker  _ places.

You cracked your eyelids open and pulled away from the pane, peering through the trees as you spotted something nestled in the depths of the forest.

“Lookit that,” you murmured, drawing Bucky’s attention and pointing to the mystery structure in the distance, “it’s an outhouse.”

He followed your finger and spied the small, wooden building propped up between two towering oak trees. Humming in acknowledgement as he turned back to the (very questionable) road.

“Y’know, if it’s not any trouble…” you began tentatively, an embarrassed blush rising to your cheeks (since when would you feel shame over something like  _ this? _ ), “Ikindaneedtogotothebathroom...”

He sent you a fondly exasperated look, “d’ya even have to ask?” Driving off the path and pulling up alongside the outhouse, hopping out of the car and giving the building a quick sweep, as if Hydra was hiding inside the musty toilet stall. (I mean, you never know…)

Satisfied with what he found, he waved you over with an affirmative nod. Watching as you slipped out of the car and jogged (read  _ limped _ ) over to meet him. Your gaze skipped over the mildewy walls of the shack, eyes widening in excitement at what you saw.

“Holy shit, a shower,” you marvelled, eyeing the showerhead suckered to the outer wall, “dibs.”

“Doubt the water’s runnin’,” he shrugged, letting out a pitchy yelp as you turned the knob and cold water sprayed onto his toes.

“Sorry,” you winced, reaching out and testing the temperature, “it’s kinda warm, though.” He snorted, shaking out his sodden shoe as you apologetically turned off the spray. “I’ll just…” you slipped into the stall, praying to god that no spiders showed up.

You sat down on the toilet and buried your face in your hands, muffling a self-deprecating groan with your palm as you resisted the urge to slam your head into the wall. Why did things have to be so...awkward? Conversation hadn’t been  _ that _ stilted since you’d hated each other's guts. Hell, even back then you had a decent rapport going.

Stupid mushy romantic feelings, ruining everything as per usual.

You finished up and groped about for the doorknob, stifling a girlish scream as you felt something brush against your ankle (spoiler alert, it was your pant leg). You threw open the door and leapt outside, hopping from foot to foot as if you were standing on hot coals.

“Spider! Spider! Holy crap there’s a— _ oh, _ ” you clapped your hands over your eyes and let out an embarrassed  _ meep.  _ Stumbling back around the corner in a belated attempt to give a showering Bucky some privacy, “oh, oh  _ fuck.  _ Sorry!” 

The fortunately(?) back facing image of Bucky’s naked body was forever seared into your brain. Tucked away in the dirtiest corners of your mind to make an appearance in your...well...more  _ entertaining  _ dreams.

“I’ll, uh, go look for a towel!” you called out, feeling your face heat beneath your fingertips as you ducked back into the stall. Biting your tongue as you quashed down the warmth pooling in your traitorous gut. You felt about for a towel, finding an old, threadbare cloth that would be a fine replacement. Spending a lot more time than necessary dusting it off as you built up the confidence to step back out.

“C’mon, Y/N, you’re a big girl,” you whispered, taking a deep breath and assuredly stepping outside. Listening carefully and confirming that the shower had indeed been turned off, “you done?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, voice huskier than normal.

“Here,” you reached around the corner and held out the towel, shaking it a little to draw his attention, “use this.”

“Thanks,” he answered, snatching the towel from your grip and hastily retreating, stepping into view with the fabric wrapped low around his waist. Left arm hidden almost shamefully behind his back.

And...your brain stopped working.

“Uh…” your tongue weighed heavy in your mouth, “uh…sorry, about earlier...”

“It’s fine,” he coughed, color rising to his cheeks (it was just from the shower, right?)

You stared at each other for a moment, the air heated from more than just the thick blanket of steam. Eyes unashamedly tracking the droplet of water that slid down his jaw, unconsciously licking your lips as your gaze traveled lower and lower and…

“Shower!” you squeaked, stopping yourself from full-on ogling, “I‘m gonna take a shower!”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, eyes fixed purposefully overhead, “I’ll get you something to dry off with.”

“That’ll be great,” you said gratefully, voice rising an octave as you admired the hair sticking to his nape, “watch out for spiders, though.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he grinned, stepping out of view and giving you some much needed privacy.

It took everything in you not to slam your head into the wall.

* * * *

_ It was dark in the closet. _

_ It was dark and musty and your dad’s shoes poked your hip as you huddled in the corner, ducking behind the curtain of coats that lined the walls. Your sister was wailing, and even at thirteen you knew that she was precious. Something to protect and hold and cherish and  _ love.  _ Love the bundled up infant that you cradled in your arms, singing lullabies that you only half remembered. _

_ “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” you sang softly, drowning out the sound of your parent’s fighting, “you make me happy, when skies are grey.” _

_ The fighting was closer, now. Only it wasn’t your parents, but the familiar staccato burst of gunfire. Rumlow’s voice shouting over the cacophony, Russian chanting that overlapped Bucky’s screams of agony. _

_ “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you,” you whispered, holding the bundle of blankets close, sobbing as you stared at the funeral invitation nestled amongst the fabric, “please don’t take my sunshine away.” _

**_“You promised,”_ ** _ a voice called, a hauntingly familiar lilt that made your chest constrict in shame. _

_ “I’m sorry,” you cried, clutching the blanket to your chest. Unphased as the cloth morphed into a soaking wet tutu, “I didn’t think, I didn’t know.” _

**_“You said you’d help me,”_ ** _ Scrappy said sadly,  _ **_“you said we’d live together!”_ **

_ “I know,” you grovelled, bowing your spine until your forehead pressed into the floor. _

**_“You said you’d save me!”_ **

_ “I know!” you sobbed, shooting upright and staring teary eyed at your dead sister, crying harder as she took a step back into the darkness. _

**_“You said you’d protect me,”_ ** _ she whispered, voice deepening and form shifting until she was no longer Scrappy, but was Bucky instead,  _ **_“You said you’d protect me!”_ **

_“I’m sorry!” you cried, sobbing in both terror and relief_ _as he marched closer. Grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you like a rag doll._

**_“You cannot keep me safe, you cannot keep me free,”_ ** _ he leaned in closer, fingers digging mercilessly into your wounded shoulder,  _ **_“and when she comes, you won’t be able to protect her, either.”_ **

_ “Who?” you asked, hollering in pain as electricity raced through your skull. Shooting through your temples and lancing through your brain in a hot spike of agony. _

“Y/N.”

_ Pain beyond measure, beyond belief; impossible to quantify. Up and down flip-flopping until you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, your world tilting on its axis like a basketball spun on a fingertip. _

“Y/N, wake up.”

_ Spiralling down, down, down as your brain was scooped out of your skull like a freshly opened pint of ice scream. Left shoulder throbbing in time with your heart as you screamed and screamed and— _

“Y/N!”

You woke screaming, thrashing about blindly as you fought against the shadowy remnants of your nightmare. Strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you into a firm embrace, burying your face in a familiar muscled chest as your shoulders heaved with sobs.

“Shush,” Bucky hummed, opening the passenger’s door further so that he could hold you close, “it’s over, you’re okay.”

You whimpered pathetically, melting against him as he comfortingly pet the back of your head. Bubbling warmth rising in your chest as you basked in his gentle touch, his solid embrace placating your crippling fears.

_ Safe. _

“M—Mu…” you stuttered and trailed off, a bone-wracking shudder rolling through you as you burrowed into his warmth.

But Bucky understood. Sliding a disc into the slot and pressing play, rocking you back and forth like a baby as the music started up.

_ When I wake up, well, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you _

_ When I go out, yeah, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you _

_ If I get drunk, well, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you _

_ And if I haver, yeah, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who's haverin' to you _

You sniffled, a wet laugh ringing through your chest as you recognized the tune. Nostalgia rushing through you in a starburst of hurt.

_ But I would walk five hundred miles _

_ And I would walk five hundred more _

_ Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles _

_ To fall down at your door _

“Tell me about this song,” Bucky hummed, stroking his hands up and down your back in order to distract you.

“I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” you explained, turning your head and pressing your cheek to his chest. Enjoying both the comfort and firmness of the muscle there, “one of the catchiest pop songs known to man.”

“Really? Even more than...what was it called...MMMBop?” he said mock disbelievingly, tucking your head beneath his chin.

_ When I'm workin', yes, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who's workin' hard for you _

_ And when the money comes in for the work I do _

_ I'll pass almost every penny on to you _

_ When I come home (when I come home), oh, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you _

_ And if I grow old, well, I know I'm gonna be _

_ I'm gonna be the man who's growin' old with you _

“Debatably,” you shrugged, praying that it was too dark for him to see the flush staining your cheeks, “depends on whether or not  _ you _ sing it.”

“That was a low blow,” he huffed, smiling softly as you giggled.

_ But I would walk five hundred miles _

_ And I would walk five hundred more _

_ Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles _

_ To fall down at your door _

“Here’s the part!” you said excitedly, tilting your head up so you could see his face, “this will be stuck in your head for  _ days.” _

_ Ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta _

_ Ta-da-da-dan-te-la-dan-te-la-dan-te-le-la-da-da _

_ Ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-ta _

_ Ta-da-da-dan-te-la-dan-te-la-dan-te-le-la-da-da _

He whistled lowly, stroking his fingers over your nape and prickling your skin with gooseflesh, “definitely catchy.”

You smiled dumbly, nightmare momentarily forgotten as you soaked in the tranquil moment. Music fading into the background as you listened to the steady  _ tha-dum _ of his heartbeat.

“And listen...if you...if you want to talk,” he began tentatively, vulnerable in a way you couldn’t describe, “I’m here for you.”

You smiled shyly, twining your fingers in the fabric of his shirt as you indulgently leaned into his grip. Steeling yourself and opening your walls, welcoming him in like a soldier home from war.

“It...it felt like I was back in that chair,” you murmured, feeling his arms tighten around you, “it  _ hurt _ . It hurt, Bucky.”

He pressed a gentle, burning kiss to the crown of your head. “I know, doll,” he hummed comfortingly, gaze far away and distant, “I know.”

The two of you fell quiet. Bucky staring blankly over your shoulder, mindlessly running his hands up and down your back; incredibly conscious of his metal prosthetic.

You could only hope nothing was wrong.

* * * *

Something was wrong.

Bucky was...distant, withdrawn; stuck in his own head. Reminiscent of when you first met him (which certainly was saying something). He’d slip into an almost blank state, staring coldly through the windshield as he mechanically navigated the offroads.

You helped where you could. Doing your best to coax him out of that headspace, and--mostly--succeeding. A quick joke, a teasing jab, even randomly bursting into song. You helped bring him back to himself.

But there was a deeper issue.

And, when you caught him staring reproachfully at his prosthetic, you began to understand just what it was.

“Y’know,” you interrupted his brooding, propping your chin up with your palm, “I could paint that, for you.”

He looked up at you disbelievingly, quickly ducking his head and averting his eyes, “you don’t have to…”

“I want to,” you reassured, “if you want it, I mean.”

“Yeah!” he answered enthusiastically, clearing his throat as if he were embarrassed, “yeah.”

You reached out for his metal arm--pausing for a moment until he nodded his head in assent--examining the plating and the faded star painted over the shoulder.

“Should be an easy cover-up job,” you mused, turning his forearm for no reason other than to admire the mechanics, “with the right tools, I could do it in no time.” You glanced up at him and smiled encouragingly, “you have any requests?”

He shrugged, the metal plates of his arm clicking and whirring in a wave of sinuous movement, “do whatever you want, I trust you.”

Your stomach did a complex series of somersaults and promptly dove off a cliff. “Alright,” you said weakly, your voice wavering with barely withheld emotion, “I’ll sketch some designs and you can pick one out.”

He hummed and sent you a dazzling smile, your breath catching in your throat as the spotlight of his affections fell on you.

“Thanks, doll,” he said quietly, twining his metal fingers with your own, “that means more than you’ll ever know.”

_ Anything for you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As you can tell by the long wait (sorry about that!), updates are going to flag for a bit. School has gotten crazy, and I have another story in the works (I know, I'm a menace). But I hoped you enjoyed anyway!
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbNlMtqrYS0)


	24. Da Vinci Ain't Got Shit On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel kinda iffy about this chapter, but I had to get back into the swing of things.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

There’s a certain magic to drawing at night.

The world silent and blanketed in tranquility, nobody around except for the stars twinkling above. Crickets chirping distantly as you sat encircled in a grove of trees, the SUV you’d hijacked standing out amongst the foliage. 

Quiet, calm,  _ safe. _

You lounged back in the passenger's seat, legs drawn up beneath you as you rummaged through your bag. Pulling out your sketchbook and pencils as quietly as you could, careful not to rouse Bucky from his much needed slumber. You wanted his ‘tattoo’ designs to be somewhat of a surprise, so it was best to draw them whilst he was asleep. (And, in a tiny, scared corner of your mind; you didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to subject yourself to the terrors lurking in your subconscious. Both new and old).

And so, ever-so carefully, you leafed through the pages and smiled at the pictures; vision aided by the soft light of the moon. Tracing over the linework with your fingertips and smudging your skin with graphite. Chuckling quietly as you recalled every moment you’d documented, every joke or wisecrack that you’d committed to paper.

You turned the page and your grin widened, staring down at the lovingly sketched picture of you in Nebraska. Flower tucked behind your ear and pinched between your fingers, an ethereal look on your face as you gazed contemplatively at the petals. Nostalgia and longing twisted in your gut, recalling the moment where you’d come  _ that _ close to kissing Bucky. Or maybe you were just being optimistic.

You looked closer at the paper, and your smile faltered. Fingers prodding at the wrinkled stains spattered across the page, the rounded circles of water damage clear even in the failing light. Like raindrops, or a water spill, or even…

Teardrops.

A sinking feeling of understanding settled in your stomach. Eyes fixing instinctually on Bucky’s sleeping form, guilt burrowing into your skull as you imagined him crying over your picture. Imagined him flipping through your sketchbook and wiping away tears as he mourned over you. It was an aching feeling of upset, knowing that you were the cause of such grief. You were the reason he weeped, the reason he smudged teardrops across the page and cried harder at the damage. The reason he’d placed his life on the line and jumped back into the jaws of his tormentors.

You didn’t deserve him.

Solemnly, you turned to a blank page. Mindlessly sketching as you vomited ideas onto the paper, rough doodles and concepts that hardly even fit together.

Ugly, garish, unappealing.

He deserved better.

You set down your pencil and stared up at the stars, letting out a whoosh of breath as you spotted the Little Dipper amongst the constellations. Rubbing at your achy eyes and blinking away the tears that threatened to spill.

“Hey, Scrappy,” you murmured, voice low as to not wake Bucky, “I could really use your help.”

The stars blinked, twinkling happily as if they were speaking to you.

“I know...but he deserves something good,” you whispered, pushing back the awkwardness of essentially talking to yourself.

_ Duh, but what does he like? What d’ya think he’d want on that shiny lookin’ arm? _

You smiled as the childish voice echoed in your ears. The familiar lisp making your heart hurt.

“Well, he likes…” you trailed off, inspiration striking you like a bolt of lightning, “Scrappy, you’re a genius!”

_ You’re talkin’ to yourself, dummy. _

You choked back a laugh, scooping up your pencil and pressing it to the paper in a flourish of movement. The soft skritch of graphite on paper echoing loudly in the silence of the car, the repeating pattern almost relaxing in the quiet. Soon enough, you had a solid idea jotted down before you; just waiting to be refined. Like an axe waiting to be honed.

Satisfied, you closed your sketchbook and set down your pencil. Tucking them away and settling back in your seat, sweeping over your surroundings and relaxing once you cleared the area. Certain that you were safe for just a little while longer.

You almost didn’t notice Bucky begin to stir.

Almost, but not quite.

It was a quiet sort of thing. No screaming, no thrashing; hell, no words, either. Just a tightening of his brow and a purse of his lips, muscles drawn in tight like a spring. Ready to be let loose in a violent explosion of instinct and fear.

You knew the dangers, knew the risks. Knew what would happen if he woke too suddenly.

And yet--blinded by the aching of your heart--you reached out and brushed your knuckles over his cheek. Smoothing the crease in his brow and sweeping his hair back, trailing your fingers down his jaw and moving to trace circles into his back. His eyes groggily blinked open at your touch, hazy and tired as they fixed weakly onto you.

“Shh, sweetheart, you’re okay,” you soothed, smiling softly as he relaxed into your touch. Eyes fluttering closed as you cupped his face in your hand and ran your thumb over his cheek, “go back to sleep, I’ve got you.”

A sleepy sigh, and he was out. Puffs of breath fanning over your skin as you reluctantly pulled away, freezing in place as you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist.

Slowly, movements heavy with sleep, he returned your hand to where it was before. Fingers going lax as he nuzzled into your open palm, lips parted as he hummed in contentment. Breath caught in your throat, you curled your fingers over his jaw. Resuming the even motion of your thumb stroking over his cheekbone.

And for one, precious moment.

The world stopped spinning.

* * * *

“Aw, c’mon, doll,” Bucky complained, fixing you with a playful glare as he drove down the winding road, “just one look?”

“No,” you refused resolutely. Holding your sketchbook up to your face so that he couldn’t see, “I’m almost done,  _ then _ you can look.”

“Please?” he insisted, laughing as you glared at him over the edge of your sketchbook.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” you reprimanded, angling yourself so that you could draw without him seeing, “then we can talk.” He made a show of trying to look over your shoulder, but a playful shove dissuaded him from continuing. Rolling his eyes as you stuck out your tongue like a petulant toddler, reaching out his hand and turning up the radio.

_ "If you like piña coladas _

_ And getting caught in the rain _

_ If you're not into yoga _

_ If you have half a brain _

_ If you like making love at midnight _

_ In the dunes on the cape _

_ Then I'm the love that you've looked for _

_ Write to me and escape" _

“The Pina Colada Song,” you told him, focusing on refining your rough sketch, “catchy as hell.”

“Uh…” he said almost nervously, glancing at you with an embarrassed look in his eyes, “what’s a pina colada?”

_ I didn't think about my lady _

_ I know that sounds kind of mean _

_ But me and my old lady _

_ Had fallen into the same old dull routine _

_ So I wrote to the paper _

_ Took out a personal ad _

_ And though I'm nobody's poet _

_ I thought it wasn't half bad: _

“Really?” you asked, glancing up from your sketchbook and raising a questioning brow. His face was dead serious as he nodded yes, “huh.” Knowing that he would soon be uncomfortable, you continued forward as normal, “it’s a tropical cocktail, real popular. You should try it, sometime.”

He was silent for a moment, mulling something over as his brows drew together in upset.

“We should make a list,” he snorted self-deprecatingly, brushing off his discomfort with humor, “all the stuff I missed out on. Check it off as I go.”

_ "Yes, I like piña coladas _

_ And getting caught in the rain _

_ I'm not much into health food _

_ I am into champagne _

_ I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon _

_ And cut through all this red tape _

_ At a bar called O'Malley's _

_ Where we'll plan our escape" _

“Hey, it’ll be fun!” you grinned, drawing him out of his thoughts as you lightly nudged his arm, “I, for one, am not complaining about drinking cocktails and watching movies.”

“That does sound nice, doesn’t it,” he said quietly, contemplating something as he glanced at you and looked away. A pink flush staining his cheeks.

_ So I waited with high hopes _

_ And she walked in the place _

_ I knew her smile in an instant _

_ I knew the curve of her face _

_ It was my own lovely lady _

_ And she said, "Aw, it's you" _

_ Then we laughed for a moment _

_ And I said, "I never knew" _

“Mhm,” you hummed, a similar flush rising to your cheeks as you imagined doing that together. A non-date-date, if you will, “very nice.”

_ That you like piña coladas _

_ And gettin' caught in the rain _

_ And the feel of the ocean _

_ And the taste of champagne _

_ If you like making love at midnight _

_ In the dunes on the cape _

_ You're the lady I've looked for _

_ Come with me and escape _

You shook your head as if to clear it and turned back to your paper, distractedly wiping at your mouth as you finished the drawing with a single flick of your pencil. Setting it down and turning the book for Bucky to finally see.

“There you go,” you announced proudly,  _ “now  _ you can look.” 

He turned his head and looked over the drawing with a soft smile tugging at his lips, eyes fixing on you with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, lowering the book and curiously tilting your head to the side, “I can sketch out another design if you want…”

“No!” he objected, glancing away before returning his gaze to your face, “it’s amazing, there’s just…” he gestured to your mouth and sighed in defeat, “here, let me.” He reached out and ran his thumb over the corner of your mouth, the scalding touch burning into your skin like a brand. Breath catching in your throat as you unconsciously grazed your fingers over the blazing trail of his touch.

“You had a smudge, just there,” he explained, pulling away with regret burning in his eyes. The loss of his touch lancing through you like a harpoon.

“Thanks,” you whispered, a breathy edge to your voice that made your insides twinge with embarrassment. Ashamed of swooning over such an inconsequential action  _ (but he was so close!)  _ You swallowed tightly and cleared the lump in your throat, “so...you like it?”

“I love it,” he grinned, returning his eyes to the road with a soft look on his face.

“I’m glad,” you hummed, warmth coiling in your chest as you sensed his immeasurable gratitude, “we just need some supplies,

And then we can get started.”

* * * *

This was far more intimate than you’d expected.

The two of you were sitting on the hood of the car, countless tubes of paint and brushes scattered around you as you picked through the mess. You’d given Bucky a list of what you needed, but he’d gone a little overboard and gotten a bit of everything. His eagerness was, quite frankly, adorable.

“Glitter?” you asked, holding back a laugh as you found a small tube of the stuff in the pile. He shrugged awkwardly and you grinned, carefully rolling up his left sleeve--once he’d given you permission, of course--and exposing his prosthetic to the cool twilight air.

With careful tenderness, you brushed your fingers over his wrist and traced the metal of his palm. Watching in fascination as the plates shifted and clicked.

“Can you feel that?” you wondered, touching the pads of his fingers and trailing back down to his wrist.

“A little,” he answered haltingly, confused by your gentle treatment of something he deemed so evil, “it’s a bit like...when your hands go numb from the cold. You can feel it, but not really.” You gave a soft hum in understanding, pulling your hand away and wetting a rag with a touch of soap; running the cloth over his shoulder and gently polishing the metal. Once it was thoroughly cleaned, you rinsed off the suds and grabbed a square of sandpaper. Holding it to his shoulder and pausing before you began to scrape.

“Will it hurt?” you asked nervously, “‘cause I’m not doing this if it will.”

He shook his head and gave you a determined nod, encouragingly flexing his prosthetic and shifting closer.

That was enough to convince you.

Tentatively, you pressed the paper to his shoulder and began to sand. Scuffing up the metal and watching as the already faded star began to chip away. Once finished, you wiped away the dust and applied a quick coat of primer, fanning your hand so that it could dry faster.

“You don’t mind sitting still for a while, do you?” you questioned, squeezing a thick glob of paint onto the plastic palette.

He shook his head once again, practically vibrating with excitement as you dipped the brush into the paint and smeared white across the bloody star. Covering up the malice with a thick layer of acrylic, replacing the star with a pale, white circle. The shape standing out from the silver like the moon in the night sky.

A smile curving your lips, you pursed your lips and blew onto the drying paint. Feeling Bucky’s gaze on you as you pulled away and began to color mix, brow furrowed in concentration as you crafted a perfect base of pigments. With the colors perfected, you rinsed the brush and dipped it in a swatch of ocean blue. Dragging the brush over the milky white canvas and splitting the circle in two; filling in the lower half with a deep, healthy aqua.

Tongue caught between your teeth, you began to add depth to the wide expanse of blue. Looking up and catching Bucky’s eyes with your own, watching a wealth of sadness, guilt, and hope flash across his face as he quietly watched you work.

You returned your gaze to your painting, speaking quietly as not to startle him, “feel free to talk, if you like. I know something’s bothering you.”

He was silent for a moment, eyes tracking your movements as you dipped your brush in a splotch of baby blue. Inhaling deeply, gathering his thoughts, and letting them spill out in a gush of breath.

“Seeing you...in that chair,” he began quietly, staring down at the hood of the car, “that was one of the worst moments of my life. Knowing the pain you were going through, knowing what would happen after.”

You stayed quiet, gathering some Prussian blue on the brush and dappling it across the painted ocean. Shoulder twinging in remembrance, the star carved into your skin burning like a brand.

“I was so... _ terrified.  _ Not just because of the effects, but that you could quite possibly  _ die. _ Because if  _ I  _ almost did, then what would happen to you?

And if you did survive, what then? Would you be wiped clean? Would you have resisted? Or would you be...would you be  _ complacent _ , like I—like the  _ Soldier— _ was.” His shoulders tensed, muscles drawn together as he grit his teeth. You ran your fingers down his metal arm, intertwining his fingers in yours and squeezing gently.

_ I’m here. _

“That was the worst bit, maybe. Remembering all the times...all the times they put me through that  _ goddamn _ chair. Tearing my mind apart and shoving something  _ else  _ inside. Something I never wanted,” his fingers tightened around yours, and you bore the slight ache with grace. Scooping some black onto your brush and covering the rest of the pearly circle. “And maybe that was selfish of me, thinking about myself while you were right there, suffering. But Rumlow was there too, and I just...just  _ lost it.” _

You watched as he squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head, wishing you could pull him into your arms and rid him of his pain.

_ Oh, Bucky. You’re the least selfish man I know. _

“I’ve never wanted to hurt anybody like I wanted to hurt that goddamn sunnuva bitch. If he didn’t run when he did...he’d be dead.” He said this so surely, as if it were the one thing he was certain about, “but at the very least, he won’t be able to see out of that damned eye ever again.”

You curled your fingers tighter around his, dipping the brush in white and speckling the black with pearly dots. Rubbing your thumb over his knuckles and tracing the metal plates with the pad of your fingers.

“Then you were in my arms again, and nothing else mattered. Not Rumlow, not Hydra, nothin’. I could float on that feeling forever,” he smiled softly, and your face flushed at the admission. Bottom lip drawn between your teeth as you bit back a dopey grin. Applying an emerald green to the tip of the brush and framing the circle with delicate vines, leaves and stems curling around the pearl like a flower bud.

“But then there was that book,” he tensed up at the memory, “those words that brought  _ him _ back, the Soldier. God, I was so fucking scared,” he admitted quietly, looking at you with his eyes watering in the dying light of the sun, “scared of what they’d make me do to you.”

Your breath caught in your chest, tears of your own welling up as you soaked in what he’d just said. He wasn’t scared of what was to be done to him, of the torture he was about to endure; but of whatever Hydra had in store for  _ you. _

_ Selfless. _

“But you saved me,” he said softly, reverently. Looking up at you as you surrounded the circle with petals of blue and creamy white, “you got me out of there. Rescued me, when you were the one who needed rescuing.  _ Thank you. _ ”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, blinking away tears as you set down your brush and cradled his jaw in your free hand, “god, I’m so sorry. Sorry that you had to suffer, that you’ve been made to think you’re selfish for your pain. Because you, Bucky Barnes, are the most selfless man I’ve ever met. The strongest, kindest,  _ greatest  _ man who is capable of more than you give yourself credit for.”

“I’m not a good man, Y/N,” he argued, reaching up with his flesh hand and holding your palm to his face. Eyes downcast and heavy with decades worth of guilt.

“You are human, James,” you whispered, “a human who has been made to do horrible things, but has risen above and strives to better himself. That doesn’t make you a good man, it makes you a  _ great  _ man.”

His voice hitched on a sob, and you pressed your forehead to his. Heart pounding in your chest as his nose brushed against yours, tears wetting his lashes and dripping onto your cheek.

“I wish I could hug you,” you laughed wetly, “but the paint needs to dry. Here, take a look,” you pulled back and watched as he stared down at his shoulder. A disbelieving smile pulling on his lips as he took in the finished art piece.

It was a lake, the landscape that he’d said was his favorite. A dark night sky twinkling above the jeweled waters, the Big Dipper standing out amongst the stars and reflecting softly on the rippling surface. The peaceful scene was framed in delicate forget-me-nots and seashell gardenias, vines curling around the edges and splaying out across the metal.

“God, Y/N, that’s beautiful,” he whispered thankfully, expression overflowing with gratitude, “thank you, thank you so much. I don’t deserve--”

“You’re a hero, Bucky,” you interrupted softly, voice hoarse with silenced sobs, “don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

_ I love you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and thank you for all of the amazing support for this story! <3
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xb6l38eP-4w)


	25. Don't Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: alcohol, past child death
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nY2INMutWxk)

The drive from Illinois to Indiana was blissfully normal.

Music, food, laughter; everything that you’d missed so dearly whilst you were held captive. The two of you finally at ease after an eternity of being on edge. Worries and anxieties temporarily put to rest as you basked in the good mood, and in each other.

For the millionth time that hour, Bucky glanced downward at his newly decorated arm. A giddy smile on his lips before he wrenched his eyes away and returned his gaze to the winding road. Only a second passing before his patience broke and he looked at his arm again, like a child marvelling at the presents beneath the Christmas tree.

“You seem happy,” you commented, mirroring his smile as he looked up at you almost bashfully, “if it gets you smiling like that, I’ll paint your arm all the time.”

Lo and behold, he smiled once again. Bubbly warmth swelling in your chest as he tilted his head to the side and his eyes crinkled just-so, stealing another subtle look at his arm much to your delight.

“I know I said it already, but thank you,” he said softly, looking up from his shoulder and fixing you with an appreciative smile, “this means more than you’ll ever know.”

And with that, you turned into a sappy puddle. A gooey mess of mushiness and icky romantic feelings. _Get a grip, woman._

“Hey, thank _you_ for being my canvas,” you replied, lounging back in an exaggerated show of nonchalance, “it takes guts to let me wave my brushes around like a lunatic.” He snorted, shaking his head as his lip quirked up in a lopsided smirk. Your heart jackrabbiting as his unintentional charm hit you full force like a sledgehammer to the face.

“Oh yes, it was absolutely terrifying,” he said mock seriously, raising his brows as he forced a waver into his voice, “I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Watch out, who knows when I’ll strike next,” you whispered conspiratorially, “no one is safe. Soon enough, you’ll wake up with a bird painted on your arm.”

“God, not a _bird_ ,” he gasped, “have mercy!” He cowered slightly before breaking character and sniggering, turning up the radio with a quick twist of his fingers.

_On a dark desert highway_

_Cool wind in my hair_

_Warm smell of colitas_

_Rising up through the air_

_Up ahead in the distance_

_I saw a shimmering light_

_My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim_

_I had to stop for the night_

“Hotel California, by the Eagles,” you explained without missing a beat, “a song that should be taken completely literally.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, raising a brow as he picked up on your blatant sarcasm, “that’s a joke, right.”

“Oh no,” you denied firmly, hand laid solemnly over your heart, “one hundred percent serious here.”

_There she stood in the doorway_

_I heard the mission bell_

_And I was thinking to myself_

_"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"_

_Then she lit up a candle_

_And she showed me the way_

_There were voices down the corridor_

_I thought I heard them say_

_"Welcome to the Hotel California_

_Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)_

_Such a lovely face_

_Plenty of room at the Hotel California_

_Any time of year (Any time of year)_

_You can find it here"_

“It seems normal so far,” he mused, slyly glancing at you for affirmation.

“Disembodied voices aren’t weird to you?” you jibed, “just wait, it’ll get weirder.”

_Her mind is Tiffany-twisted_

_She got the Mercedes Benz_

_She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys_

_She calls friends_

_How they dance in the courtyard_

_Sweet summer sweat_

_Some dance to remember_

_Some dance to forget_

_So I called up the Captain_

_"Please bring me my wine"_

_He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969"_

_And still those voices are calling from far away_

_Wake you up in the middle of the night_

_Just to hear them say_

_"Welcome to the Hotel California_

_Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)_

_Such a lovely face_

_They living it up at the Hotel California_

_What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)_

_Bring your alibis"_

“Almost there,” you said impatiently, biting your lip and worrying it between your teeth as you awaited the shift.

_Mirrors on the ceiling_

_The pink champagne on ice_

_And she said: "We are all just prisoners here_

_Of our own device"_

_And in the master's chambers_

_They gathered for the feast_

_They stab it with their steely knives_

_But they just can't kill the beast_

_Last thing I remember, I was_

_Running for the door_

_I had to find the passage back_

_To the place I was before_

_"Relax," said the night man_

_"We are programmed to receive_

_You can check out any time you like_

_But you can never leave!"_

“Okay, I see it now,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as you playfully shoved at his shoulder.

“So it took a cult ritual for you to catch on, huh,” you joked, moving your fingers up and down an imaginary fretboard as the famed guitar solo started up. Making random mouth noises as you ‘played’ along to the music.

“And...what are you doing,” he questioned, cocking a brow as he watched you spaz out like a toddler after a sugar binge.

“Playing the guitar, duh,” you answered as if it were obvious. Nodding your head along to the beat as your fingers plucked at the invisible strings. Quick, skilled movements that would’ve appeared impressive, if they were on an actual guitar.

“Of course,” he deadpanned, “my mistake.” You grinned, beaming like a spotlight as he sent you a fond look. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel along to the _rat-tat-tat_ of the snare, the two of you joining together in a shoddy recreation of the famous piece.

And distantly, very distantly, a voice chimed;

_There’s something you’re forgetting._

* * * *

“And don’t forget your--”

“Hood, I know,” you reassured Bucky, tugging the fabric low over your forehead as you stepped out of the car, backpack slung over your shoulders. Eyes cast downwards as you trailed at his heels, following closely behind as he prowled the gas station for a vehicle to ‘borrow.’ He’d been reluctant to let you even poke your nose out in the open, but after a lot of nagging and some unfortunate circumstances, he’d relented. Allowing you a breath of fresh air despite every single protective instinct screaming otherwise.

And so, being completely focused on staying glued to his side, you nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached out and clasped his hand in yours. The molten heat of his palm burning into your skin like a brand (it was the right one, the left was hidden in his pocket), the press of his fingers setting your heart off in a fast paced rhythm. It was a matter of convenience, you knew; the grip on your fingers allowing him to tow you around like a toy on a string.

But...your treacherous little heart didn’t know that.

And, of course; that conniving ball of muscle decided to betray you. Hammering against your ribs like a bird slamming into a glass window, the labored _thadum thadum thadum_ almost impossible to miss in the silence of the gas station.

How could he not know? How could he miss the veritable marching band thudding away in your chest? How could he ignore the schoolgirl flush that rose to your cheeks and heated your skin?

Maybe he was just that oblivious.

Or maybe...he wasn’t interested. Maybe he secretly hated you.

( _Oh, hello insecurities. Where have you been?)_

Well, you could play pretend for just a little while longer. Curling your fingers around his and imagining that this was yours, that the casual touches were anything more than platonic. Brushing your thumb over his knuckles and feeling the calluses caked over his skin, the roughness grounding you to reality as he dragged you along. Solid and real and yet completely out of reach. Like Icarus reaching for the sun, or Bellerophon flying to Olympus.

Forever doomed to fall.

“Here,” he directed, herding you towards an offwhite minivan on the outskirts of the lot. Letting go of your hand and leaving a ghost of warmth in his wake, jimmying the door open and hotwiring the car with practiced ease, “get in.”

“Uh, Bucky,” you spoke up, tapping his shoulder and pointing into the backseat, “there’s a _baby.”_ As if on cue, the adorable little thing threw up their hands with a ‘ _ga!’_ Gnawing on the car seat buckles like a dog chewing a rawhide bone, face screwed up with drooly concentration. Pudgy fists waving about like a clumsy cheerleader, “I’m not stealing a car from a _baby_.”

“Shit,” his eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at the little tyke, backing off and beginning to not-so-subtly panic as the baby’s face screwed up with tears. An ear splitting scream ringing through the air as the child began to bawl, “what do I do?”

“Try to calm them down,” you advised, glancing nervously at the gas station where the parents were undoubtedly shopping, “wave something in their face, baby’s like that.”

With your words in mind, he reached out and shook his hand in front of the baby’s nose. Accomplishing nothing more than making them cry even harder. “It’s not working!”

“Not like _that,”_ you critiqued, pushing at his arm and sliding into his place, “let me try.” You took a deep breath and let a motherly smile spread across your face, cooing softly as you began to speak, “hey baby, I’m so sorry about him. He’s just a big meanie.” You could feel Bucky’s scowl burn into your back, but it was worth it as the baby’s sobs quieted to wet hiccups, “yeah, I know. We’ll be out of your hair real soon, okay? You just gotta be _really_ quiet, so your mommy and daddy don’t beat us up!” Your voice was chipper despite the dreary subject matter, and the kid began to giggle as you playfully stuck out your tongue; slowly backing away and letting out a sigh of relief as nothing exploded.

“Wow,” Bucky whistled as the two of you retreated, setting his sights on a black Subaru and easily breaking in, “that was like _magic_.”

“Yeah, I practically _raised_ my sister so--” you paused. Color leaching from your face as you realized just what you’d forgotten, “what’s the date.”

He raised a brow at the sudden shift in conversation, but told you nonetheless.

_How could you forget._

_How could you forget_ **_her._ **

“Hey Bucky, how easy would it be to steal some alcohol.”

* * * *

God, you were drunk. Drunk off of shitty, gas station vodka that tasted almost like bleach. The type of alcohol that burned going down and would burn coming back up, a fiery trail of misery that was no fun for anyone.

But nevertheless, alcohol was alcohol. It all served the same purpose.

To forget.

“I’m cutting you off,” Bucky said from beside you, his sudden appearance in the dark making you jump. Vodka spilling down your chin as he ripped the bottle from your shaking hands, falling back against the windshield as you lay spread eagled across the chilled hood.

“Hey! You can’t do that you fuckin’...fuckin’ asswipe!” you shouted, batting at him blindly as his shadowy figure grabbed your wrists and held you still, “tha’s mine!”

“Well, I stole it,” he said blandly, “and I’m beginning to regret doing so.”

“Gimme it,” you pouted, writhing in his grip and even gnawing at his fingers like an angry chihuahua (your alcohol soaked brain wasn’t cognizant enough to realize you were biting his metal hand), “you don’ want it, it tastes _awful.”_

“So why are you drinking it,” he clipped, less like a question and more of a statement.

“Just ‘cause,” you said matter-of-factly, using his grip on your wrists to tug him forward, “there’s a little left, c’monnn.”

You could feel his disapproving glare more than see it, the familiar crease in his brow making your stomach all warm and bubbly (maybe that was just the nausea). He let go of your wrists and you crowed in victory, jaw dropping as he scooped up the bottle and stubbornly downed the rest of the drink.

“Nooo,” you whined, pressing your forehead to the windshield and relishing in the chill, “meanie.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said amusedly, hopping up onto the hood and settling in beside you, “what’s going on?”

And like the lovestruck fool you are, the genuine concern and care in his tone was enough to break you (the worried, drawn expression on his face certainly didn’t help things either). So like a beached whale, you rolled over onto your back. Wincing slightly as your left shoulder dragged along the hood. Staring up at the night sky and blinking away tears as you gazed at the Little Dipper.

“It’s her birthday today,” you whispered, “thirteen years old, finally a teenager.”

“Scrappy?” he questioned softly, patiently waiting for you to continue. Lying down alongside you and staring up at the glimmering constellations.

“Her name was Freddy,” you revealed, chest tight with years of suppressed emotions, “and it’s my fault she died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we're finally getting all of the answers.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and sorry for the long wait!
> 
> ***
> 
> As a staunch supporter of BLM, I've decided to use my platform to garner awareness for the cause. As many know, on May 25 a black man named George Floyd was unjustly killed by police. A Minneapolis officer knelt on his neck for nine minutes straight whilst he begged for his life, loudly proclaiming 'I can't breathe.' George Floyd may have lost his life that day, but we will not forget him. And we will not rest until justice is served not just for him, but for the dozens of lives that have been wrongfully taken before him. I realize I may lose readers with this, but I do not care. Below you will find links to petitions and donation sites, and if you are able, please support the cause any way you can.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> [Split a donation between community bail funds](https://secure.actblue.com/donate/bail_funds_george_floyd)
> 
> [Donate to BLM](https://secure.actblue.com/donate/ms_blm_homepage_2019)
> 
> [Change.org petition](https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd)


	26. Freddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: child abuse, child neglect, past drug use, child death
> 
> I have no intent to make light of or romanticize any of the struggles shown. And I do not wish to trigger or offend with my writing. If the content above could be triggering for you, I suggest you skip this chapter. And if anything is inaccurate or offensive, please let me know so that I can learn from it.
> 
> Thank you.

And with that, everything came gushing out.

“I was thirteen when my sister was born,” you began, avoiding Bucky’s eyes as you stared up at the stars, “it wasn’t a happy thing. My parents were in the midst of a messy divorce, and I guess my mom thought a baby would fix it. It did not.” You sighed, clasping your hands over your stomach and fidgeting nervously, “she got primary custody, my dad got weekends. Still don’t know how that happened.”

You laughed. A low, self-deprecating sound that you doubted was pretty to hear. Your voice heavy with alcohol and sadness, weighed down like concrete around your ankles. Sinking to the bottom of the sea.

“And it was fine, things were fine,” you shrugged, the windshield startlingly, refreshingly cold against your back, “she had a pool, she had a stereo. I was just glad the fighting was over, and that was more than enough for me.”

He was quiet, silent. Waiting for you to continue.

Which was so goddamn  _ refreshing.  _

After years and years and  _ years  _ of people interrupting you, undermining you; acting as if they understood when you hadn’t even spoken. Talking over you and bulldozing your words like loggers in the Amazon, not giving a crap about what you had to say. 

And now finally,  _ finally _ , someone gave you what you wanted. Finally someone  _ listened _ . He  _ listened _ .

“But then she became...distant. She’d go out a lot to drink, mainly smoke. All the stuff recent divorcees do, I guess,” you continued, stomach going sour like old milk, “She’d come back late, if at all. And then basically spend the whole day sleeping.” Your hands clenched into fists, muscles aching as your nails fiercely dug into the thin skin of your palm, “I had to take care of my sister. I heard her first words, I saw her first steps, I kept her washed and clothed and fed. And  _ no one was there. _ ”

You took a long, slow breath. Biting down on your tongue as you fought against the primal urge to scream. To scream into the void and curse the world for the shit it put you through. A selfish, selfish need to dump your problems on the universe and hope that the stars would give you a hug.

“I mean sure, my dad was there for  _ two days a week _ ,” you seethed, dialing back the resentment you knew he didn’t deserve, “but what could he do to change things? He was a good man, striving to better himself and move on from his past. But the court didn’t see it that way,” you unclenched your fists and flexed your fingers, “he was a drug dealer, did some time for a possession charge and decided to change his ways for his family. But a crime’s a crime, and the judge rather liked my mom’s squeaky clean record.” You grit your teeth, cynicism oozing from your every pore as you mockingly sang your mother’s praises.

“So she got custody. Which was  _ fine,  _ things were _ fine _ ,” your jaw was starting to ache from you grinding your teeth, “sure she was rude and controlling and wouldn’t go shopping for weeks and then act like it was  _ my fault _ . Like, how is a thirteen year old supposed to feed two people and a baby?” you were laughing, you realized. Shrill and hysterical, like a woman gone mad (you supposed you kinda were).

“But I tried, I really did,” you laughed, throwing up your arms and dropping them to your sides, “‘cause I still loved my mom, however stupid that was. Wanted us to be happy even if we weren’t a whole family anymore.” You shook your head, both hating and pitying your younger self, “so I cleaned and cooked and went shopping. Cut corners and got a job, sold half my stuffed animals and traded the rest for baby stuff. Spent a third of my time rounding up my mom from whatever dive she’d holed herself up in. And spent the other two letting her yell at me for not trying hard enough.”

You could almost hear her now, her voice carrying on the wind as you brought old memories to the surface.

“But I did it for Freddy, did it because I wanted her to have a good life,” you sniffled, the alcohol making you teary far too early in the story, “and I know that’s some sappy Hallmark shit, but it’s true. She was so goddamn sweet, always dancing and singing like life was a musical or something,” your breath hitched as you fought not to cry (not yet, damnit. It’s not even the sad part yet!), “god, she’d  _ love  _ you. Probably would’ve braided your hair a thousand times by now.”

The two of you laughed at that. And in a sudden burst of confidence (although largely motivated by fear), you reached out and grabbed his hand. It was the left (not that you cared), and you could tell that he was hesitant even as you gave it a reassuring squeeze. Feeling comforted by the cool press of metal against your palm.

“And I promised her,” you continued, voice breaking as you remembered what you’d said, “told her I’d get her out of there. Get custody and take her to Disneyworld like she’d always wanted.”

You remember making that promise. Linking pinkies and crossing your heart with the solemnity of a blood oath. Freddy reciting some long, drawn out speech she’d heard somewhere on TV as she ‘bound you by blood.’

_ (“We’re already bound by blood, Scrapadoodle.” _

_ “Oh.”) _

“And I worked so goddamn hard,” you whispered, voice strained and weak, “but it wasn’t hard enough.” You wiped at your nose with the back of your hand, not even caring about hygiene as you sniffle, “I dropped out of high school, despite everything. Despite all my promises.”

Your voice evened out as you continued, “but I didn’t take it lying down. I pulled through. Got my GED, got accepted into the art school I’d always wanted. 

“But I blew it. Blew it all for fucking...goddamnit it’s so stupid...fucking  _ drugs _ ,” you squeezed his hand in yours, dragging your palm down your face and resting your fist on your chest. Self loathing bubbling in your stomach like magma in a volcano, “and you were right about what you said, in the beginning. About how I wanted-- _ want-- _ control.” You sigh, finally allowing yourself to admit it, “and that’s...that’s how I got it. Drugs, I mean.

“Because it was something I chose, however twisted that thinking was. I felt like I had control, that I had the whole thing underwraps and could stop and start as I pleased,” you scoffed, “I was wrong, obviously. But hindsight is 20/20, and little me was too stoned to realize things were spiralling.” Shame coiled around your heart as you relayed the next part of the story, “I stopped visiting, stopped answering phone calls. Stopped trying to get custody and stopped showing up to...to birthday parties.”

You glance aside, feeling Bucky’s gaze burn into your skull as he patiently waits for you to continue. Brushing his thumb over your knuckles as he grounds you to the moment.

“She was turning six,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut as you will the tears away, “no one was there for her party, no one except my mom and her boyfriend.” You tilted your head back, eyes stinging as you fought back the waterworks, “she invited me and I didn’t come. I had ‘other things to do,’ or some shitty excuse like that.”

You tightened your grip on his fingers, metal biting into your palm as you scooch closer to his side, “she...she wanted to go swimming. And without my mom watching, no one could stop her from slipping under the pool cover.

I didn’t know she was dead until I was invited to the funeral.”

You were crying, you realized. Not the pretty, movie type; where a single, dainty tear falls down your cheek. But an ugly, sniffling wail as you turned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest. Clutching at his shirt and wetting the cloth with your tears as you relived that awful, awful moment all over again. Distantly, you’re aware of him murmuring in your ear. Whispering comforting words and phrases that you’d said to him long ago, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you close.

“And I—” you hiccuped, stumbling over your words as you spoke, “I quit cold turkey after that. Cut off my mom and tried to...tried to be better.” You choked on your next breath, coughing and hacking as he rubbed circles into your back, “and I haven’t talked to my dad since because it’s all my fault and—”

“No,” he said sternly, bringing a hand to your cheek and tilting your head up, “it’s not your fault.”

“But—“

“ _ No _ ,” he repeated, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone, “you’ve said that to me a thousand times, and I’ll say it to you a thousand more.”

“But it’s different,” you insisted, “I could’ve gone back anytime. Could’ve helped her,  _ saved  _ her.”

“You made mistakes,” he said softly, “but there was no way you could account for your mother's neglect. No way for you to know what would happen.”

“But I should’ve!” You objected, “I was there for all of it, I knew what she was capable of. With me gone, maybe she hit Freddy too—“

“Y/N,” he whispered, drawing you close and forcing you to look at him, “Y/N, did she hit you.”

You glance away, but find your eyes gravitating back to his own, “I—no...but, she…”

“Y/N.”

You ducked your head and pressed into his chest, meekly whispering, “yes…”

“Oh, doll,” he comforted, cradling the back of your skull and hugging you close, “I’m here, I won’t let her hurt you. I won’t let  _ anyone  _ hurt you.”

And despite your doubts, despite your fears.

You believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and sorry for the long wait!


	27. Cue Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I promise it was worth it :)
> 
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlPlfCy1urI)

Telling him was...freeing, in a way. Opening the floodgates after years of building up the dam. Letting go of the rope as it burned, trusting that someone would catch you as you fall.

And he  _ did _ . Pulled you close and held you tight as if you were something worth protecting. Holding back the demons as you fell to pieces in his arms, hunched over and small as you let yourself be weak. Let down your walls and invited him in with open arms. 

And like a flower turning to the sun, you felt yourself begin to bloom. The edges beginning to smooth over as you finally, finally, took the steps towards healing. A piece of jagged glass beaten by the ocean and turned into something...beautiful. And while you certainly had a long ways to go, one day you’d reach the peak of this insurmountable mountaintop. Planting your flag and flipping off everyone down below.

Well, everyone except Bucky.

Because he’d be right there beside you, with a flag of his own.

* * * *

Lake Erie was deceivingly beautiful.

And sure, you knew the name. Learned it in fourth grade when you were too distracted by the gum stuck under your desk to really pay attention. But that thirty minute lesson didn’t do it justice. Didn’t convey the vastness of it, the glittering waves and the far stretching horizon of nothing but water.

But there was a taint to that beauty. Curls of toxic green algae blooming across the surface, furling over the waters and mucking up the view. It was poetic, poetic that something so large and untouchable could be ruined by humanity. Though it wasn’t exactly surprising, considering how you’d explored the worst of the world and came out scarred. Different, and not all in a good way.

But all that aside, it was still something worth seeing. Worth pulling over on a distant outlook and watching the stretch of water from afar. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hood of the car as music blared from the radio. The sky darkening with swirls of plum and inky blacks that dappled the canvas of oranges and blues. Wispy clouds trailing overhead like stretched out cotton balls.

“I get why you like lakes,” you grinned, boldly resting your head on his right shoulder, “this is pretty nice.”

“Yeah,” he answered, looking down at you as a small smile pulled at his lips, “it’s beautiful.” You grinned, looping his arm around your shoulder and cuddling closer. Resting your cheek against his chest as you looked out over the lake.

You’d think it’d be awkward between the two of you, considering what you’d shared. Having divulged your deepest, darkest fears and secrets to the one you  ~~ loved ~~ trusted the most. 

But it wasn’t. Wasn’t in the slightest.

Because he’d done the same. Had bared himself before you to be judged. Defenses crumbling to dust as he let himself be vulnerable, let himself be weak. Abandoned his reservations and threw himself into the thick of things. Sure that you’d be there for him just as he was with you.

And you were and he was and the world was at peace.

Butterflies flapping about in your stomach, you shifted even closer. Folding into him like paint adhering to paper, clinging tight as the music changed. A flare of piano keys that made the butterflies multiply tenfold.

_ It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside _

_ I'm not one of those who can easily hide _

_ I don't have much money, but, boy, if I did _

_ I'd buy a big house where we both could live _

_ If I was a sculptor, heh, but then again, no _

_ Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show _

_ I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do _

_ My gift is my song, and this one's for you _

“Your Song, Elton John,” you explained without being prompted. Cheeks flaring with situational embarrassment as you cursed the radio for picking this particular song at this particular moment. Heart hammering in your chest like a bird slamming into a window. Obvious and annoying.

He hummed softly, tucking you closer to his chest as you panicked. Unaware of your predicament as you struggled to regain control, grappling for the reins as you tried to calm your racing heart. Beating it back with a whip whilst shrieking ‘no!’ at the top of your lungs.

But that was when inspiration struck. A dumb, incredibly self-indulgent idea that may very well explode in your face. And with immediate disregard for the possibility of death, you initiated said plan.

_ And you can tell everybody this is your song _

_ It may be quite simple, but now that it's done _

_ I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind _

_ That I put down in words _

_ How wonderful life is while you're in the world _

“C’mon,” you said, rising to your feet and grabbing him by the hand. Hopping up onto the car roof and dragging him along with you like a toy on a string. He followed obediently, trusting you as you placed his hands on your hips and grasped his shoulders, “let’s dance.”

He seemed hesitant. Hands shaking almost imperceptibly as his fingers hovered over your hip, brushing over your shirt as he debated between moving in and pulling away. Warring with himself as his face darkened with emotion, “I don’t know…”

“Hey,” you smiled, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze as you drifted closer, “we’re on a roadtrip, we need to have at least one B-movie cliche, right?”

Shakily, he returned your smile. Slowly resting his hand on your hip and drawing you close. Swaying from side to side like an awkward middle schooler as your eyes met, locked onto one another as you danced atop the car like two star-crossed lovers. The dying sunlight casting over his face in a warm, heavenly glow. Awashing him in golden hues as you were captivated by his gaze. Drawn in by the impossibly soft look in his eyes.

_ I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss _

_ Well, a few of the verses, well, they've got me quite cross _

_ But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song _

_ It's for people like you that keep it turned on _

_ So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do _

_ You see, I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue _

_ Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean _

_ Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen _

“So,” you began, voice more unsteady than you’d intended, “we’re almost at the end of this shit show, huh?” He nodded, grip tightening imperceptibly as you moved along to the music, “it feels like we’ve been on the road forever.”

“Not long enough,” he mumbled, pulling you closer so that there was no room left for Jesus.

“Yeah,” you agreed, watching sunlight glance off the roof as you avoided his eye, “but this can’t last forever, can it. ‘Cause once we reach Brooklyn…”

Well, you never really talked about what would happen then. At the beginning you assumed he’d leave you, blindfolded and tied up in some random alleyway. But now...things were different. Feelings were different. And whether or not you’d split up remained a mystery, a far off problem that you saw no reason to address.

But now that problem was looming overhead. And you had no choice but to confront it.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong,” Bucky objected, silencing any doubts churning in your mind, “I want...I want to keep doing this, with you. Want to keep travelling and doing stupid, normal shit like a normal person.” His hands drag up your back until you’re basically hugging. No longer dancing, but just listing from side to side like a ship weathering a storm, “and I have a feelin’ that Brooklyn is gonna be very, very different. It’s not home, not anymore.” He pulled away just enough so that you could look him in the eye, “you are.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Brain completely overwhelmed with feelings as your body warms from head to toe. Mouth cut off from your brain as you say what you’ve been holding back for so long.

“You’re my home too, Bucky,” you admitted, charging forward with the half-baked plan you’d barely concocted, “I love you.”

_ And you can tell everybody this is your song _

_ It may be quite simple, but now that it's done _

_ I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind _

_ That I put down in words _

_ How wonderful life is while you're in the world _

He froze. Plunging you into a panic as you realize what you’d just said.

Well, may as well be honest.

“I love you, Bucky Barnes. I love you so goddamn much and I don’t know how to stop,” you rambled, lungs starving for air as you tried to put your feelings into words. Tried to explain your deep and utter devotion to this man in the few seconds before everything went to shit, “and I’ll tell you it every fucking day because you deserve it. You deserve it no matter what you think. And I can’t expect you to feel the same, I know that. But you’re so strong and caring and I couldn’t stop myself from falling. Couldn’t stop myself from loving the man who carries the world on his shoulders. Who bears the weight of all his sins though so few are even his own. Who’s soft and sweet and genuine despite all the shit you’ve went through. And I’m so sorry I--”

“Can I kiss you,” he interrupted, stopping you in your tracks like a penny on a railroad. Looking at you with such a heart-wrenchingly joyous expression that you felt your stomach swoop. Dancing long forgotten as the implication of his words sunk into your love addled brain.

“Yes,” you whispered, breath caught in your throat as you both leaned in at the same time. Fireworks going off in your head as finally, finally, you pressed your lips to his. Pouring everything you had into the kiss as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Raking your fingers through his hair as you tugged him close, noses bumping clumsily as you smiled against his lips. Bubbly happiness washing over you like an ocean of carbonated soda. Sweet and nostalgic and perfect.

The need for oxygen outweighing your need for kisses, you regretfully pulled away. Breathing the same air as you gently pressed your forehead to his, staring at one another as you drank each other in. Drawing out the moment for as long as you possibly could.

“I…” he stumbled over his words. Squeezing his eyes shut before blinking them open, gaze softening as they locked onto yours, “I’m so scared, Y/N.”

“I know, sweetheart,” you comforted, the pet name falling from your lips unbiddeningly. Knowing the extent of his feelings without him having to vocalize them, “I’m safe, you’re safe, and I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

And with that, you pressed your lips to his once more.

_ I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind _

_ That I put down in words _

_ How wonderful life is while you're in the world _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop whoop! The moment we've all been waiting for!


End file.
